


The woods are full of them

by Centemare



Category: Arsenic and Old Lace (1944)
Genre: 1920s, 1930s, Alternate Universe - Trans, Bisexual Male Character, Coming of Age, Gangsters, Germany, Historical References, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Medical School, Partnership, Period-Typical Homophobia, Queer Themes, Strangers to Lovers, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Violence, Weimar Republic, anyway it's basically trans!Hermann living his lil queer life in weimar republic germany, wow there are lots of tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 86,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8137072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Centemare/pseuds/Centemare
Summary: This is a story in which you can be ten-years-old and still have your entire life figured out (apart from a few minor details), or :- a story in which a transmale, somehow-Jewish, grieving, smug Hermann Einstein becomes utterly captivated by one of his teacher's unbelievebly tall grandson, or :- a story in which it's not any easier to be the partner of Jonathan Brewster than in any other story, or :- a story in which living through the Weimar Republic and its share of aspiring Nazis gets a hell of a lot harder when you happen to be very much queer, or :Hermann Einstein and Jonathan Brewster have a lot of business together.





	1. Prologue

The ticket is written in bold black letters, on some kind of thick paper material he keeps toying with (the corners are all creased). “Hamburg to Harwich [Pacific Company], departure : 10:30, 28th of October, 1935 –  arrival : 14:00, 31st of October, 1935”, it says.

The ticket doesn’t say “mistake”. Doesn’t say “is Jonathan Brewster III the best thing to have happened to you yet”, doesn’t say “what is there in the ocean for you to find”, doesn’t say “the mustached man would have killed you both”. It doesn’t say “success” either, though, doesn’t say “there are worse decisions than this”.

It doesn’t even say his name. He’s not Hermann Einstein here, he’s a passenger on some ferry that, supposedly, will get him to Harwich in three days, London in four, by train - as long as it doesn’t sink in the North Sea.

That is, if he so much as gets on it.

Jonathan’s already on board. Hermann told him he’d have a smoke and then join him up there ; right now, he can’t quite bring himself to leave the dock, and he looks at the pontoon like it’s some kind of faraway land. Plus, he doesn’t even smoke. Jonathan knows that, Hermann knows that Jonathan knows – and they both just pretend the prospect of leaving the German atmosphere behind makes Hermann want to fill it with smoke for the first time, and they both try to ignore that maybe, just maybe, Hermann’s not so sure he will.

The ticket doesn’t say “I’ve never been so scared in my entire life”, doesn’t say “this is the most incredible day of my existence”, doesn’t say “do it”, doesn’t say “don’t do it”.

“Hamburg to Harwich”, that’s (almost) all as it says, and maybe it’s enough.


	2. A rigged game at the carnival (two fists held behind your back)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Man (v) :  
> \- to take. to build. to destroy. to love so hard you can't open your fists.  
> \- to own. to own everything. to own yourself.  
> [...]  
> \- to walk alone. to sleep with unlocked windows. to breathe deep, without worry.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure you're there because you love Arsenic and Old Lace/got lost looking for fanfictions/have a very specific hobby which includes browsing the internet for fanfictions about trans gay characters from the 30s. Either way, I'm not here to judge...
> 
> About me, I'm a pansexual trans guy who'd really really like to see some more trans/gay representation, and really really likes Arsenic and Old Lace, and basically just all of Peter Lorre's movies. No shame. Maybe just a little bit of shame.  
> Commeting'd be REAL nice, but we all say that, so I just hope you enjoy the ride and maybe let me know what you think :)

**1913**

Sure, he has heard enough times that girls cannot become surgeons, even though he doesn't really understand why it is so ; thing is, he still fails to see how any of this applies to him.

He's fairly sure he'd fix an ill heart better than any of his comrades, and he can easily picture himself putting a shattered bone back into place (well, if it's _technically_ possible. He isn't aware of all the medical possibilities of his time – not yet, that is). Yet they tell him he can't, for some reason. Maybe it is the way the kids keep telling him he's a girl, keep pointing at what is – and not – between his thighs.

He's wanted to be a surgeon for so long, he knows much more than any kid in his school about anatomy. So yes, he does see how his body differ from all the other boys' bodies. But he's one nonetheless ; he cringes at each “she” thrown in his direction, like the other boys do ; only it happens to him much more often than to them.

School may not be the safest place for guys like him, but apart from all the boys kicking him, punching him, throwing away his books (which he handles way worse than the rest), apart from all the _dress like a girl stop pretending to be a boy you inverted sodomite,_ apart from the disapproving looks of the teachers and the insults he roughly understands a half of or so, school is okay. Okay because he has books there, because he can learn obsessively about the human body (and way less obsessively about... well, all the other subjects) and sometimes, be praised for his good grades. He doesn't care that much about the grades stuff, but still, refusing praise is clearly not a luxury he can afford.

He doesn't know what it is he's looking for exactly in sciences, maybe some kind of a proof of his existence, an explanation as to why he breathes and why his heart beats, taking all the organs that allow him to live and splaying them out in order to know all about them, knowing why he is here, he and all the other kids at school, boys and girls, born like him or like them. Biology helps him sort things out.

**1916**

Stories like his always have a turning point, like every little boy who one day learns he will grow up to be a man someday, and a successful man, if you please. Successful like wearing a white coat and unfolding human bodies to heal any dissonance he may find there, just the way his pianist of a brother does/ _did_ with sheet music. This comparison would not be so welcome in his house. One tends to forget things when they are left unspoke n ; some days he even doubts he has/ _had_ a brother.

Stories like his always have a turning point, but he has no tale to tell on why he wants to go to medical school and study surgery ; it came to him as naturally as being a boy. Problem is, those two aspects of him need an explanation, a reason, a justification, or people won't understand it. They say “you want to be”, like he's ever questioned it, like there was a choice to begin with, like he's ever been anything else.

There was, though, a turning point in his story, though not as big as “choosing to be a surgeon”. It came one windy, lukewarm morning of autumn, when he was sitting in his school library, his ten-years-old cheeks warmed by the early sun. He was never a big fan of summer and rain was much more to his liking – only, warm weather allowed him to read with the window open, and he liked that. A few other students were sitting all over the room, but he wasn't paying attention to any of them.

It was only a name at first, until he understood what it meant. A name – until the words Medical School in the title of the article he was reading caught his attention. He knew little of what it exactly meant, but he knew his hometown had none, which was enough to sparkle his interest. The man this name belonged to was a doctor, just like he would be one day ; not a surgeon, but it didn't matter. The book said he had earned a Nobel Prize in 1910. The book said he was called Albrecht Kossel. Now he didn't know what “Nobel Prize” meant either, but it had the word Prize in it, which rang of medals, gold, and fame, to him. A Prize ! Prize like the ones they gave to soldiers, like the ones on the shelf of his house, the one they never talked about. He wonders if the Nobel Prize too is only awarded to the dead, or if you have to do something else. Heidelberg, said the caption. Medical School of Heidelberg University. Now this was a fancy title.

He learned about the Nobel Prize the day after, when he asked his school teacher. This sounded like a very good thing to earn. Do they give it to people like me too ? he asked. You mean “girls”, said the teacher. No, they don't.

He didn't mean “girls”, but if the teacher thought he was one, surely the Jury of the Prize would, too. Anyway, all he had to do was be the first one. He hadn't really figured out in what exactly he would be the first, but well, he was ten. He had time. Anyway he had reached three conclusions that day :

\- first, being a doctor can get you far in terms of fame,

\- second, being a doctor can get you far in terms of geographical distance,

\- third, he wanted to get far.

Not that he hated his hometown, but, well, he did, a bit. It is somewhere south of Nuremberg, and it is not so small, but it's not big either ; it has a school, several banks, lots of people don't work in the fields, etc., this kind of town. Towns like these are everywhere, especially here in Bavaria, he's come to learn, all churches, flowers, narrow streets and low-roofed houses, a kind of kitsch picturesque he's seen too often to love it accurately. The war didn't transform it that much, contrary to the cities just next to the frontier (those which go to France every ten years or so). Only a lot of dead people, and a slight change of atmosphere. They were close enough to the countryside not to starve, and far enough from the battlefield not to hear too much of it. The war passed by his town and by him without leaving much trace ; his brother was not so lucky.

**1921**

Some years later, he has to change school. It is 1921 ; he is 15 ; the school of his hometown doesn't provide classes for the level he's now reached. Sure, it is an all-girls school he has to go to, like every school of this level in Germany, but he couldn't care less ; he's used to being forced to wear dresses anyway. It's a boarding school, and it means he sees less of his parents, which is still something. Ever since the war ended, his mother has been blaming it on someone, and his father would nod like it was the Gospel, which is surprising, considering that his father's father is a Jew. True, the country is in a bad state, even he sees it, but aren't all European countries in the same position ? His mother says that no, that the French did this, that they crippled Germany. She says modernity is going much faster in other countries, that there are towns in France where everyone has running hot water and electricity. In Germany, the only difference is that women now work and that the country is poorer. In those moments, he clenches his fists beneath the dinner table.

He doesn't want to hurt his parents, not really ; he knows he's not like that. He has wanted to hurt some of the boys, though, and some of the girls too. He's wanted to find fists like they have and words that hurt as bad as theirs, he's wanted to hurt, wanted something of their bodies that wasn't healing, and he doesn't like that. If anyone knew this – if he dared kick back any of the other kids – he knew they would blame it on his _difference,_ would snicker _she wants to be a boy and now she fights like one_ , or _deviants always get violent at some point_ . And it's not like that, he knows it, those parts of him have nothing in common, but as always, he cannot expect other people to acknowledge it just because he says so. Once, older men followed him around town, and he felt their hot hands on his naked shoulders, and he wanted to throw up ; one was the father of a girl of his school. He kicked one between the legs and ran away, unable to breathe properly until the next morning. His mother told him _“Don't be a tomboy. Don't play rough with the gentlemen.”_

**1922**

It's not until he's sixteen that he sees a corpse for the first time. The war, people leave it unspoken, they let its ghost haunt all those who were not there, or were too young to understand ; _it existed, it killed people, yet we never really talk about it_ ; they are left with its shadow always on their backs, resorting to talking about it the way they talk about wolves, beasts, ghouls, whatever lives in the forest and inspires fear. He knows little to nothing about the war, except that it has destroyed the city hall, that the French and the Brits have caused it, and that a lot of people have been swallowed whole by it, their names now splattered across a monument in front of the church.

Even though people do not talk about the war, he knows it happened, and he knows he owes it his first corpse. He'd fantasized about seeing one forever, understand it as some kind of trial by fire, to know if he was truly able to perform surgeries. He runs across the corpse in the forest by his village, during the holidays, when he has nothing better to do than to wander around the trees ; first it's only a body lying against an oak, as if sleeping. His first thought, on closer look, is that its face looks a bit like a cigar-store dummy. The corpse is half a skeleton already, its once-shining uniform now decaying to a muddy shade of gray. Half of its face is missing. He looks at the body, grazes it shoulder, shivers. He wonders whether the soldier is German or French, whether he lived there, he wonders how many dead bodies he's going to see in his life (turned out to be quite a lot.) Suddenly he wants to throw up, and the forest air feels almost too thick to breathe, the sunlight too bright through the oak leaves. He turns around and goes back to the village, trying to pretend as if everything was the same ; it's not ; now, he knows even surgeons are nothing in the face of war.

This day he promises himself never to be involved with anything transcendent, anything that would go beyond his understanding, never to be turned into a no-one. Humanity is scary enough as it is. He can face death and face life, sure, but not as a face in the crowd, not among millions, or thousands. Nor hundreds. Two people already sounds better ; going through life with one other person seems like a good number, he ponders. Human beings are not as scary.

When he's not busy reflecting on pain and war and death and the unimaginable power he know he would hold with a scalpel in his hands, he likes to study. Just like he used to, when he was smaller. He now knows that getting into Heidelberg is not as easy as he thought back then, but he also has way more tools to actually succeed ; one of those tools being among the best students in his school, or knowing which studies to follow in order to get you admitted, or still being every inch the surgeon he'll soon be acknowledged as, after all these years.

His relationship with his parents haven't really grown any better, over the past few years. Last time he attended a family gatherings at his grandmother's (neither his father nor his mother have much relatives in his hometown, so such gatherings are scarcely common) his grandmother served him two potatoes in the entire meal and they didn't exchange a single world. _Maybe it is because my parents told her I wasn't who she thought I was,_ he thinks, while eating his meal in silence, and helping to set the meal and clean the plates and serve the men, together with the women of the house. And he knows that even though Germany's poor, and meat is rare, and food is expensive, the war is still over, and surely his family have enough money to feed him more than those two tasteless vegetables that leave him hungrier than the usual meals. _Maybe it is because she saw me trying on my grandfather's ties_ , he wonders, even though he knows he looks swell in it ; _maybe it is because she's an old hag who knows nothing of her grandson_. Anyway he leaves the dinner table early and he goes buy himself a loaf of bread at the bakery next to the church, with some change he's been saving. He stays there for a while, looking at the new car of the mayor he's been parading in for days, at the women in large dresses and complex hairstyle, at the men in suits and top hats for some.

They – he, his strained mother and his exasperated father – talk about it for the first time that night. “It” being this stupid idea of his that he is not what they tell him he is. The word “pretending” chimes in a hundred times or so in the conversation. How he's never going to find a husband or a honest lady job, how he's corrected a teacher once or twice telling them he was a boy, how people are whispering about him in the streets, about their deviant _daughter_ – he cringes – how he's not a child of God by acting like this. He's lucky his hometown isn't quite small enough for his story to be the center of the attention ; only those who know him, or his parents, or went to his school seem to care. Still he doesn't feel so safe when he dresses the tiniest bit more masculine than usual, and has to walk by night, or talk to strangers.

It's when they threaten to take him away from school that he finally reacts. He could give up on ties a thousand times but _not on Heidelberg_. He's never doubted, never been tired of fighting, or been unsure, or at least he's never admitted it to himself ; but this, that his parents are doing, is a low blow. If it gets in the way of medicine, if he has to be one or the other, a surgeon or a man, if he has to go through this choice, then he's not so sure anymore. After all, if he really was a man, a full-time man, a complete man, it wouldn't sound so silly in his mouth to scream at his parents to call him he, he wouldn't be so ashamed and angry sometimes.

He stays in school. Teeth clenched. Fists heavy. In a dress, with long hair, with a name he's never wanted to hate but that begins to feel more and more foreign.

**1923**

Every once in a while, he hangs out with the girls of his dorm (the rare ones who don't think him too weird) and sneak out of school to visit some boys from another school. Sometimes, they go to the forest and kiss those boys. It doesn't feel so bad. He'd like to try with a girl, sure, because that's what boys are supposed to do, but boys are alright to kiss, really. Which adds to his confusion.

His parents are not so rich ; they belong to this unsettled kind of middle-class that has enough money and education to send their _daughter_ to school, but clearly not enough money to feed a nonworking child for long. It is 1923 and things are not going well in Germany, not for anyone ; in the city where he goes to school, he's seen once or twice young blond men parading in the streets, with not-so-peaceful slogans. NSDAP, they say they're called. Always up for trouble, being loud, and, in his opinion, barking more than they bite. Sure, they have little to zero political influence, they're just loud and ruthless and beat up people from time to time, but... They're here. And they're not going anywhere. Their words look a lot like something his mother would say, and when he told his mother about it, she said she knew about them, and that next time he saw them he should bring them some flowers and be a good German kid. His father is not so enthusiastic (maybe because of the his-father-is-a-Jew part.) He told his kid to be safe, most of all, and that with a bit of luck they would help set the country in the right direction, help make Germany great again. The kid is not sure he agrees with either of his parents.

Still, he can't deny the rush he feels, sometimes, when looking at them ; maybe he'd want to parade like that someday, not necessarily to look this masculine or this grown, but just to know this kind of togetherness, of rhythm, of singing at the same time the exact same anthem, of chanting phrases at the top of his lungs. He'd promised himself last year never to follow movements as big as this one, never to let himself be buried in a crowd, to die unremembered like the soldier in the forest. But... He kind of feels that by fighting with them, by being one of them, he'd be immortal. He can't picture those square-jawed, blue-eyed, muscular machines losing any fight they'd get into.

Usually, next second, he remembers that as the grandson of a Jew and as a man who's easily mistaken for a woman, those men probably want him dead. It makes it easier to look away whenever they parade.

**1924**

It is the year of finishing secondary school, getting his Abitur ( _exceptionally early for a woman_ , they tell him, because he got it on first try), the year he feels himself becoming an adult, the year he starts to feel confident walking in towns he doesn't know. He visits quite a lot of them in the summer, too, because he is soon to begin advanced courses of Biology, and he looks for the one that would give us the best chances of entering Heidelberg. He's heard that most _female_ students (over the years, he's grown to understand why people told him that he couldn't be a surgeon because girls don't become surgeons, can't dissect a heart or a lung or any other organ properly ; he now gets that this is going to be a lot harder than it is for the other men he knows ; he understands why they think he's a girl, yes, but he still knows he's not one) are currently negated admittance at Heidelberg, because there are supposedly too much of them at the University right now.

He has no idea how it is possible for anyone to think that, because unless he's hugely mistaken and Heidelberg is composed 90% of women, there is no way on Earth this can be true. Still, women can't get in the prestigious University, and are sent to Freiburg instead, which is still a good school, but nowhere as famous and big and interesting as the one he wants. Plus, Freiburg's surgical education focuses a lot more on theoretical diagnosis as a way to apply your knowledge, but that's not what he likes about medicine, not patiently solving a riddle, not having a list of symptoms and finding out exactly why this guy is going to die in excruciating pain ; what he really enjoys is crushing the brain-teaser with a hammer and rebuilding it the way he wants to. He damn hopes his disgust for those pointless diagnosis cases won't get in the way when he applies for Heidelberg.

He'd been working in a sewing workshop since last year, so his parents can make ends meet and still keep him in school, but he quits the job when he finishes school, because he's going to another town to continue his studies. Frankly, they have less problem with him heading towards the career he wants than with him heading towards the masculinity he wants. He'd found the job because of a friend of his mother's. He could also have entered a factory, like many girls from his school have, but he is not the tall, muscular type, and he knows enough of the disastrous effects factories have on the organism not to ever want to be hired in one.

Germany, just like the USA, just like France, has been changing drastically its policy on medical education. Considering the country is not nearly as rich as its neighbors, it hasn't invested as much money as they have, but it still managed to raise large sums of money for laboratories, clinical facilities, and to affiliate medical schools to universities. It's become a nationwide matter, almost, and he can see a rather bright future ahead of him, if he manages to get this Heidelberg degree. Medical studies are now much longer and harder than the 1910s's four year course, internships are mandatory, and a medical elite is slowly beginning to form, with all the new knowledge and techniques that have appeared in the past decades. Which, to him, means a possibility to earn lots of money quickly, and become famous, and escape this little town and this little life he's been trying to run away from for years. And also, maybe, make some small changes to his body.

He's heard about those things, like anyone who reads the news have, probably. Memories of those advances in surgeries hang around his head whenever he daydreams about narrower hips, broad shoulders, a deep voice and a flat chest. He knows it is _technically_ possible, just like it is _technically_ possible for country German kids to become rich and famous in the USA ; just _extremely unlikely_. Those are one-of-a-kind surgeries, for those who can handle fame and buzz and media attention, and for one specific type of people (upper-class, Christian, flawless-faced, full-walleted beings, whose like looks enough like a dream as it is) he will never belong to. And those surgeries only ever go _the other way around,_ reserved to those born with narrow hips, wide shoulders, a deep voice and a flat chest, to those who want his breasts, his high-pitched tone and soft features, who sport blond hair, long eyelashes and dresses better than he ever will.

He's never heard of people like him ; in the books, those who _look_ like him are always girls in disguise, girls that cut their hair short so they can do men's jobs, girls escaping arranged unions, girls seeking freedom, but girls who are girls nonetheless. He, on the contrary, was not forced by any stroke of bad luck into he, him, his, in short hair or suits ; not once had he the idea he was pretending or faking anything, the few times he dressed up in his father's clothes ; he was only dressing for a part he knew was his from the beginning.

For now, his priority is to survive and to study, as it's always been. He enters a post- _Abitur_ high-level course, with just as high results in entering Heidelberg, which lasts three years at least. This is another school, another town, and he finds another job to complete the small allowance his parents send him. There are very few girls in the course, mostly boys, mostly bragging arrogant boys who think themselves an elite because they got in the course. Most of the girls want to be nurses ; not that they ever had another option. One or two have higher goals, but do not admit them in public. They only trust him with their secret because... he doesn't really know why, actually. He's not known among his peers to be very much of a talker, but he knows how to make things clear when needs be. And he's definitely made them clear about his career plans. Wearing it like a glowing light on his torso, like a spell to himself. And his grades in dissections exercise are high enough to convey the message.

The most ambitious girls in his course are two 18-years-old, one a red-haired, tall, chubby lady named Magda, the other small but muscular, an athlete, named Karla, whose mother also happens to be the first female teacher in Heidelberg.

He's unable to dissimulate his surprise when he finds out. Both of them are in the library, reading to prepare for their upcoming Anatomy exam. Her fingers are playing with a lock of the chestnut hair she always holds back in a ponytail, and the fact drops from her lips like it means nothing. Hermann's eyes freeze mid-sentence.

“She's what ?”

“Yeah, she teaches there. Since last year. Greta von Ubisch, maybe you've heard of her ? She went to Freiburg first, that's why I want to get there. We're all doctors in the family, I ought to be one too. Might as well not let my sex lock me any doors.”

(Hermann is fairly positive he's just fallen in love with her. It is a new feeling – something like an ache for closeness, a tight knot in his heart. And _yes_ , he's read some romantic books, and yes, he did grow very fond of them. It's Magda, the red-haired girl, who lent him some during the past few weeks.)

“And-and do you think we have any chance ? I mean, getting in surgical education there ?”

“Well, mother says there are quite a few girls there. Not much of them study surgery, though. It's the elite. Not this easy. Well, I guess a girl's got to give it a try.”

But he's already lost in his thoughts, in one thought in particular, that he cannot actually express until hours after, when it's late at night, and the three of them are sitting in Karla's apartment, which they never do because they are not supposed to walk home when it's dark. What used to be a parental restriction is now a safety one.

“Hey, you know about Dörchen Richter ?”

It doesn't sound too off-topic, fortunately, because they were just in the middle of a discussion about ground-breaking surgeries, all enthusiastic voices and expansive gestures, fascinated as the three of them are by this century they're living in. Karla was in the middle of a reenactment of Cushing's last operation – making use for the first time of an electrosurgical generator. Her muscular arms freeze mid-air.

“Isn't it this man who became a woman two years back ? I mean, if I remember well, he, em, she got castrated, and there's all this thing about recreating a v- sexual female organs with surgery ?” Karla hesitates. “Once in a while it comes up in medical circles, and everyone loses their minds.”

“My mother got furious when I brought up the topic one night”, adds Magda. “If he wants to become a she, that's dandy for me, but my mother, she got mad as heck.”

(He swallows hard.)

“Have you ever heard of it going the other way around ? Like, g-girls who become boys ?”

Now, they both are sharp-minded kids, who know an innuendo when they hear one. Maybe he's not good enough of a liar, even after all these years. Magda coughs, Karla scratches her head.

“Well... Yeah, probably. I mean, there's been all this work on hormones recently – like, they do all those things to our bodies, estrogen for us and testosterone for them, and I think some Bavarian guy managed to recreate it clinically. Bayer's producing it in America, as far as I know. It's call endocrinology, or something along those lines. But... But it's dangerous, or it may be, hasn't really been approved by anyone yet. And about _other_ surgeries... No. Doesn't ring any bell to me.”

There are a couples seconds of silence when Karla's done talking.

“And you're asking because... ?” Magda whispers.

He's never really talked about this to anyone, in details, never really told anyone how he felt, not his parents, not the kids at school ; maybe he would have told his brother, though, were he not... _away_. But he tells them. He tells them all he knows, some stuff he even figures out as he's talking, and when he's done, he gazes up to meet two confused pair of eyes, but not angry, not mocking, just wondering what the hell he means.

“Did you come up with a name yet ?” Karla asks, because neither of them really know what to say, and it sounds like the safest question she can come up with.

He curses himself for a fool and an idiot – holy mackerel, how come it never crossed his mind ? He has to admit that no, he hasn't, or better yet, the words drop out of his mouth, sounding so silly and foreign it's almost second-hand embarrassment he feels, waiting for the laughs. But none of them are laughing. Sure, they don't look at him, and Magda nervously tucks a lock of red hair behind her ears. But they're not laughing.

It is dark on the other side of the window, outside. The glass offers him a class-one reflection of the three of them sitting together, and he can't help but notice how alike their bodies are, how the dim lamp on the floor deepen all the shadows in the room, accentuating each and every one of his curves. He'd curse at this lamp, were it not an innocent inanimate object.

Magda is the one that breaks the silence. “Maybe Magnus would be nice. As in, the Great. You know, as you always say you want to become the best surgeon in Germany.”

(Magda Sammel is a gift from above.)

**1925**

They don't talk about it for weeks afterwards (even though he sees them becoming slightly more supporting over the days), because it is Christmas, because they each come back to their family, and because soon New Year is here, with each year's usual roasted turkey, countless cakes and pies, and side glances in his direction. Nothing's changed, except that he's now eighteen and a half, and that at midnight, when they are all praying in the chapel, he clasps his hands with all his strength and pray for this year to be the one the serum finally mixes with his blood, changing him, morphing him, taking him away, and he's still praying, long after he's left the chapel. He still has yet to know which God he talks to.

1924 meant the 10-years-anniversary of the beginning of the war ; but 1925 means the 10-years-anniversary of the first battle of Champagne ; this is one of the few battles he knows, and he expects some word from his parents, a letter, a postcard, anything to point out that they know, that they remember ; he expects a letter all the way from early January to March the 17th, and nothing comes.

When he comes back home for his name's day, two days later, he is astonished to find his parents looking at him, a smile on their faces, eating lunch at 1 P.M as they do every single day of their lives. He was planning on not saying anything, but... this is not what he expected.

“I'd like to go visit Eugen's tombstone,” he asserts. “You know, last week having been the anniversary of...”

This is the first time either of them brings up the topic, the first time in 3650 days ; the name now sounds alien and unwelcome, and its presence in their house feels less like a tribute and more like a ghost story.

“You could,” retorted his father. He's looking uneasily at his hands beneath the lunch table, before asking his wife for another serving of sausage.

“Don't you want to come ?” he maintained.

Oo-oop. Wrong answer. His parents share a glance.

“Perhaps not. There will be a lot of people at the cemetery tomorrow. Like old Frau Schertz – she lost her grandson at the war.”

His father nods. His mother nods. Like everything is settled.

He would like to bring up the subject again somehow, by recalling, for instance, some trait of Eugen's, a hobby he had, anything. But there's nothing he can come up with. Everything related to his brother is a blur in his mind, and he can't picture anything more precise than some random face that somehow looks like himself, with the same black hair he has, only shorter, and eyes like his, probably, and-

Suddenly tears are dwelling in his eyes and he's angry, angry at himself for forgetting, angry at his parents for letting him forget.

“He was your son, you know. Eugen. He used to live here. He could have come back. He could come back. They never found his body. Remember ?”

His words hang in the air, but no storm breaks out, none of the fury he expected to face. Both silent. All silent. Always silent when it comes to his brother.

For the first time in years, he catches himself wondering if maybe, just maybe, the corpse in the forest was Eugen's. He doesn't know if he wants it to be or not. Maybe, to some extent, it would give him an opportunity for a farewell he never got to give.

But it also scares the holy mackerel out of him.

 

Now all everyone talks about is this guy who ended up in jail last year, because he and a handful of non-entities tried a putsch somewhere in Munich. He fails to understand how any of this can be considered relevant in any way, because the guy's in jail with his henchmen, and it happened a good two years ago. But then he learns that the guy got out of Landsberg in December last year, and that his party has just been deemed legal again, and that he's written a book about his fascist views that will soon come out in the bookstores, and maybe, yes, it is actually relevant to talk about him.

The guy sounds very much like all those creepy cult-leaders to him, which is not dangerous in itself ; the part that bugs him, though, is that he also sounds very much like the guys parading in the streets and handing out leaflets on Sunday, which makes sense, because they belong to the same party, to this ever-growing far-right trend. That is already more disturbing.

They talk about it in one of his class, because no one seems to be in the mood to learn about the most common liver infections in the cities (he isn't either ; that class was obviously leading to a diagnosis exam, like finding out which illness it is based on the symptoms alone, and he _still_ doesn't like this, doesn't enjoy wasting hours sorting this out when it has literally no practical outcome). He usually stays away from those debates, except this time he's dragged into it when an older guy snickers “had this Hitler succeeded, we could have gotten rid of freaks like _her”_. Punctuated by a scornful glance in his direction, one he's seen all too many times in 19 years.

No one even hears the slur apart from him, (because they're all too busy watching the fistfight that broke out between a tall Jewish student and some guy, who asserted that there was some truth in what Hitler said. Understandingly, the Jewish guy didn't quite agree with him.) So the insult goes unnoticed, and he goes through the rest of the class with his pen scribbling meaningless phrases on his notebook, having to endure the older guy's stupid smile whenever he looks up from his notes.

He heads right to his next class afterwards, too furious to do anything else, let alone engage in a conversation with anyone. Stupid kid, stupid kids, stupid country with its stupid sex system and its high-collared morals, stupid nonsensical world, and stupid Hitler who, he's got to admit, actually does scare him a little. Thankfully, there's no “Magnus” among the putschers. He'd have changed his name right away.

He likes the name alright, though it does ring a bit foreign to his ears. That may explain why he doesn't hear Karla calling him from the other side of the corridor, or maybe it is because she said it very softly, very quietly, so as to prevent anyone else from hearing it.

“What do you want ? I got into some trouble in class. Not really in the mood.” He doesn't say it in a mean way, because he truly cares about her – though he came to realize that he isn't, actually, in love with her. And that he should stop trying to persuade himself that he's head over heels for any woman he meets. Actually, what he really fancies right now is a drink. Schnapps sounds good. He's tried it before, in the bar next to his school, with the disapproving looks of the barman seeing a young _woman_ drink. But he holds his liquor quite well, and it does its job.

“I still don't really understand all of what you're doing, but I've, er... You know, looked it up a bit, about, this testosterone thing ? And, it is actually possible, although, like I said, not totally proved to be safe. But a doctor my mother knows does it. Not officially or anything, but still. He could- help. Just thought I'd let you know.”

And she's gone as fast as she can, as soon as he has the paper in his hand, with a name and a street number written on it. That's all.

That's all, but still. Karla von Ubisch too is a gift from above.

 

He finds himself in that street the next day, shaking and doubtful. It's far away from his apartment (and it's a shady street at that) and he has to admit that he's extremely scared. One step is all he needs. One step is all it takes to get in -

\- Then next thing he knows he's in his bed, eyes wide open even though it's 3 A.M, his heart pounding so hard in his ribcage that he can't sleep. He did it. Managed to enter the house, talk about what he had to talk about, and go home.

Karla's mother's acquaintance, the doctor, seemed tall, slightly more tanned than most Germans, wavy black hair slicked backwards. He didn't look nearly as shady as the street he lives in ; and he surely knew how to put someone at ease. His patient, on the other hand, was all nervous smiles and quivering voice, his pop eyes constantly browsing the place, looking for an escape door. He tried to avoid the subject, to deny he was what he was, but the doctor guessed it all, as if he knew all about him from the moment he stepped inside. They talked for a solid three hours, and it ended with them parting ways and shaking hands, each with something they hadn't three hours ago ; quite a lot of money in cash for the older man, and a prescription with a date for his first shot for the younger one.

Two weeks. He has to wait two weeks. Two weeks that feel like the eternity he's had to live inside this body.

And then the date arrives, and he enters the doctor's house for the second time, like the young god he now feels himself to be. Prepared for anything life could throw in his direction, especially the syringe held tight in the doctor's hand. He thinks about how far he's come since he was that ten-years-old kid in his hometown, about how he didn't even bother telling his parents about the hormones.

The needle enters his arm, the liquid enters his veins. Suddenly he's not so sure it's what he wants anymore, not so sure he can trust anyone with any of this – trust Karla and Magda with his secret, and trust this stranger he's seen twice in his life with his health. His lids lower on his eyes as he does his best to engrave himself in the moment. Forget the doubts. Forget himself.


	3. The breath before a yell (the promise of sound)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You asked me  
> For the loudest opposite of neutral,  
> To be a marching band in a library.

**1926**

It's already his tenth shot of testosterone, and he manages his appointments the best he can, between his studies and his work at some downtown restaurant, to complete his parents' allowance. It's too good to be anything but magic. Too efficient, too powerful. He's never wanted to enter a Research department so bad in his life, never been so fascinated by what mankind has done with science, out of this illegible mess that is the Nature. His voice has been growing slightly deeper and lower since the second shot ; hair is growing all over his body, except on his face ; it is a fascinating thing to watch, and even more so when he realizes only a handful of pioneers across his country are experiencing it as he does. He doesn't fail to thank Karla a few times, but she doesn't seem to be so comfortable with it, so he eventually stops. She doesn't avoid him, sure. She just has this unsettling look of pity sometimes, when she sees him. Thankfully, people haven't noticed what is happening to him, not yet ; they see the changes but can't put two and two together and blame it on a condition, an illness, anything. He knew it when he started the treatment, this is a very experimental thing ; the changes it brings, when it brings some, are slow, and approximate.

Nonetheless, the year 1926 is a year of long hours of study (he will graduate from his course in July next year, if everything comes out fine), and of loneliness, too. The winter 1926 is a particularly cold one, all chilly wind and frozen windows, that he somehow manages to go through, on his own.

With those changes in his body came the side effects ; fatigue, muscle pain, headaches, sometimes so painful he can't study anymore. He reassures himself, thinking this is a new technique, thinking he's helping science improve, but sometimes he wishes he was born in a body which naturally provided him with those hormones.

This is also the year he realizes that maybe, just maybe, being a doctor in this world isn't as perfect as he once thought he would ; how many of them they are now, young and old, having to handle both the generation clash and the ever growing number of practicians. 20 years old and for the first time seeing the numbers, this sounds pathetic, but he never actually payed any attention to that before, because he had other things to contemplate, and it's not like anyone warned him. Even if he does graduate Heidelberg, he'll find himself a young doctor dependent on state funds among thousands, in a country so broken he'll already have enough problems to deal with.

**1927**

He's gone through it all a thousand times, through all the books, but somehow he feels the need to do it again ; annals, last year's exams, what is expected of them, whatever documentation he can find. Finals have these effects on everyone. He bravely puts up will all the subjects, even the ones that bore him out of his mind.

Magda passed her exams in May, and she already made it to the university she wanted – it is a miracle in itself, that even one of the girls in the course got to enter an actual university. The other girls, they became nurses, as it was expected of them ; some of them were just as good as some of the boys, only they were not willing to face a lifetime of fighting for recognition.

(Thankfully, he passes the exams as “Student Einstein” and nothing more ; that'll get him through the first step of admittance to Heidelberg, even though it will get more complicated afterwards.)

Now it's Karla's and his turn to pass their final exams. The boy calling him a freak got where he wanted to be ; the Jewish kid didn't ; could be a coincidence, of course, or just that something ugly is spreading through Germany. For the moment, only the _real_ Jews are targeted. Not half-half-Jews like him, not people whose only link to Judaism is some faraway ancestor.

  
  


And he's so focused on his studies, that what it takes for him to realize how short he is on money (blame it on the doctor bills, on the books he bought, everything he drank) is the landlord threatening to kick him out. It's not formulated that way, of course ; the man comes up with some very imaginative tale where the reason for expulsion is that _she was seen on multiple occasions taking home men that were probably not kinsmen and definitely not her husband._ Which is a blatant lie, by the way. He gets so angry when he learns about it, especially since it would have been so easy to just say _pay the rent_ but no, it wouldn't be polite to say that to a “young girl”. Anyways, he still has to admit that somehow, he wishes that this made-up lie was true, about him taking a different man home every night. But men coming to his apartment, climbing in his bed, kissing him ? Him being bold – and brainless – enough to ask them to do so ? Not going to happen. The landlord clearly doesn't understand a thing about him.

So money's short (which, by the way, wouldn't be the case, if he did what the landlord accuses him of doing), so he has to work twice as hard in the restaurant, meaning he washes twice as much dishes, waits twice as much tables, gets half the sleep time he used to have, while still working five times harder than before to ensure he gets what he wants. This rather tight schedule is made easier by his not talking much to anyone anymore. Karla and Magda were supportive, at first , but now that he begins to look more and more like what they can't believe he is (it is still subtle _–he almost spelled it stubble-_ , but anyone who knows won't fail to notice those changes), they've grown distant. Magda is soon to leave for her new university in Leipzig, and he hasn't talked to her in weeks at least. It gets lonely. He spends a lot of time at the library, by himself. Trying not to fall asleep on his books, not to let his thoughts wander too much to Karla or Magda or the other ones...

One day he's so tired he ends up closing his books an hour earlier than usual, stretching his legs, letting out a miserable yawn. Are all those changes on his body really exhausting him that much, or is it the three hours of sleep he got last night ? Who could tell ?

Anyway, he starts putting the books he was reading (or trying to read, really) back into place, one by one. The cloud around his head won't let his eyes fall back in focus. He feels himself to be on the verge of a breakdown, like clouds pregnant with rain, like an overflowing sink. In some desperate attempt to stay awake, he begins browsing the shelves, looking for all the authors named Magnus. Like counting sheep, but the other way around- helps you not fall asleep. It should work. Somehow. Ought to get him back on track, get his head off all the stress, so he can resume his studies.

1 book, 2 books, 1 Magnus, 2 Magnus, 3. 8, 9, 10, 11. 17. 18. 19 books – then the word “Transvestiten” catches his attention. The 18 other books he didn't pay any attention to them, but that one, he's not letting it go. The back of the volume says 1910, right by the title of the piece. He's almost reluctant to touch the object, as if it was cursed somehow, full of a magic of some sort. What's even more amazing is that a library such as this one displays such subjects.

It is a heavy book, leather-black, covered in gold letters. “Magnus Hirschfeld, the Transvestite's Erotic Drive to Crossdress”. Sounds promising. And furthermore, no one's paying him any attention, so the risk is basically inexistent – he waits for God to strike him down with his lightning, to punish the disobedient, but nothing happens. So he takes it as a yes. And reads it.

And after two solid hours spent devouring the book, he's able to draw three conclusions :

\- first, this Hirschfeld guy is most certainly not _like him_ , but he still has figured out more things about _Transvestiten_ than most, and more things than he himself would ever have figured out on his own ;

\- second, there _are_ surgeries available, and very practically possible ones at that ; not only possible, but that were done in the past (and in Germany, if you please), and he'd give up on next month's testosterone shot just to meet that Karl M. Baer that the book mentions ;

\- third, the name Magnus doesn't sound so great anymore, now that he's found another Magnus who may deprive him of some fame in the medical field ; but he can't think of any name he wouldn't have to share with some medical genius. Once again, the best solution is the most obvious one ; pick a very common name and give him _lettres de noblesses_ it never had before.

He brainstorms for some minutes. He likes the name Albert alright, but there's this Jewish man who got a Nobel Prize in 1921, and who's director of the Institute for Physics, who happens to have the exact same name. So he settles on Hermann.

  
  


Ever since Magda's gone, he hasn't really come around to talking with Karla. Not that they talked that often to begin with, but at least, as long as the third young lady was here, they would still meet up from time to time over a tea or a beer (which would earn them a couple of very disapproving looks, but whatever). During the time the three of them were studying at the same place, the two women alternatively supported him fully, brandishing convincing soliloquies about acceptance and each person being able to decide what was best for themselves, and next minute they would be avoiding him, asking him awkward questions he'd heard a thousand times before, and not so convinced he knew who he was in the end. He doesn't really know what they think about all this, because they rarely talked about it. Frankly, he's never opened up to anyone besides them, but he is fairly sure their reaction was the best he could realistically except.

When Magda left, she offered him a fancy masculine hat that had belonged to her brother. She knew full well he always dresses in feminine fashion, given that he could run in someone he knew anytime in this city, and that he isn't willing to take such a risk, even though he desperately wants to be called “sir” in the streets. And the dresses he wears, and has worn for his entire life, also help cover up the changes testosterone are bringing to his body, because they are beginning to be harder and harder to conceal. Still, she gave him the hat ; telling him something along the lines of “if one day you dress as yourself, you'll need that hat.” _Only two months left,_ he now tells himself, _and I'll be off to Heidelberg in a new name and new identity, fresh start, never having to lie again._

As it turns out, giving up on his next testosterone shot against a visit to Herr Baer wouldn't have been so great a sacrifice. Since between his studies, his work and his preparation for his (supposed) entrance at Heidelberg he's left with no time and no money, he has to heart-brokenly decide to stop the injections. _For now_ , he promises himself. And in the darkness of his room, after having said farewell to his doctor, he solemnly pledges to resume the shots as soon as he's settled in Heidelberg. No “if”. No “maybe”. He has to trust himself and his capacities fully on that one.

Magda left in June, now it is already the middle of July, and they are right in the middle of their exams ; he barely has time to sleep, let alone to read or to enjoy life in general. Still, one day, he finds himself invited by Karla to a retransmission of a football game on a giant screen ; it doesn't really count as a motion picture, but he is still fascinated by the concept. He accepts ; the match has been played a week ago, but, as news spread slowly, they haven't yet learned the outcome. Karla seems less tense than she'd been all of last year, as if she was finally learning, as if she was finally understanding. (The day she gave him the endocrinologist's name didn't count ; she did it more out of curiosity than good intentions.) She even holds his hand in the game's last minute, saying _Hermann, they're going to win !_ and cheering just as loud as him when Nuremberg's football club becomes national champion for the first time. After all, Nuremberg is almost home. For the first time in years he feels proud of his country, of the German spirit, hoping they won't let the far-right rule them, won't let a dictator destroy them. Those dark times are slowly beginning to cover everything, especially here in the south of Germany, and it is becoming harder and harder to ignore it.

Exactly a week after the game (they came back star-eyed and gay, enjoying the warm evenings of July) Karla is informed that she hadn't gotten in in Freidburg.

He's not here when she learns about it, but he's informed an hour later or so ; she storms out of her classroom, clenched fists but no tears, and drags him across the hallways so they can talk in some quieter place.

“They said no. They refused me. I don't want my mother to have any say on this, I don't want to enter just because she helped me. Guess I'm just not good enough after all.”

He's never seen her so bitter, so angry. But what he tries to figure out right now is what exactly it is she wants of him.

“And with all that, they didn't want me. Good. I'm off to being a nurse then. Good thing that Magda got there at least, I would feel too bad if of the girls of this course had succeeded. She'll get far, but I sure as hell thought I'd get as far as she will.”

She lays against the wall, closing her eyes, wheezing, while he processes through _Karla is genuinely glad that someone did better than she did_ and _Karla just called me a boy_ and that's a lot to process.

“I ought to be angry at you both, I really do, and I sort of am, but I have to admit that I have considered that possibility. Even before the exams. You were just so good at dissections, at being your surgeon self, and Magda is the most talented girl of this school. I considered it. And let me tell you, there's something you need to know.” Her finger is pointed at him aggressively, or determinedly, he couldn't say. Either way, he instinctively backs out.

“Don't you walk out on me. You stay there and listen. God knows I didn't want this to happen like this, God knows I'd rather have been admitted, but things are the way they are – I guarantee you I'm not going to sit down and watch. This is the last thing I can do and I intend on doing it.”

“Which means ?” This is the first time he talks, and he's not positive he was right to do so. Karla's hand bumps him in the chest. She's never been like that. Never in two years.

“Which means I'll get you admitted as far as I can, which means I'm getting you an appointment with my mother, you stupid lucky... _person_. This is the last thing I ever do for you, because my kindness only ever gets _so_ far, you know that. I guarantee you you'll do the rest yourself, big boy. But that I can do for you. You better get your ass out of here as soon as you can and enter that University.”

He freezes for a few seconds, because it's just too incredibly good to be true. That's the first time he thinks that maybe, just maybe, Karla might be a little in love with him ; or she might just be a vastly unpredictable person that he'll probably be grateful for during his whole life. She seems almost hurt to be this nice while in the inferior position of having failed her exam, she seems almost hurt, but also determined to do whatever she can just to feel better about herself.

There's just too much to think about right now, and she probably knows it, so she notifies him that this little help will cost him an actual sum of money, which he can't possibly refuse to do, because he's just so _happy_. It makes him feel a little better about accepting her help, because it begins to look more and more like a bargain, and not just like her offering him the opportunity of a lifetime.

“You get there. You show them. You better not give up halfway, or I'll make sure my mother destroys your career. You've got luck, I tell you, and it's evil to not make the most of it.”

  
  


The rumbling of the train somehow sounds like the heat of his apartment when it's not working well – loud, disturbing and full of smoke. It is most certainly a good sign, though, the noise and the smoke, when it comes to trains. Winters in Heidelberg are not as cold as they are in Bavaria, he remembers, as he witnesses the landscape changing and morphing through the side windows, becoming less and less familiar each minute. Heidelberg, he thinks. Heidelberg, and the ringing in his head won't stop.

Karla didn't give him anything for the trip, not an address, not a plan, not a number, nothing, and he honest to God has no clue of how to find the University once he gets to the city. Surely people will know, surely people will be able to give him directions. He's come to understand that Karla's will to help isn't unlimited. He doesn't blame her for it. She was heartbroken enough, and still willing to lend him a hand, and he can imagine how it feels to have to carry someone else's burden on top of yours. There was spite in her decision, a huge “ _if I'm not good enough for this medical education system, I'll make damn sure someone changes it from within, and that this someone will need my help to get there”_. She's a proud woman if he ever saw one, unsettled by what she doesn't know, disturbed by it, but soon to regain her composure whenever she is needed somewhere.

He also wonders whether she'd been accepted, had she been named Karl instead of Karla. But that's the thing with those suppositions : you'll never really know.

As doubtful as he is about Karla's good intentions, he is also fully aware that this is his only chance to enter Heidelberg with a correct identity and name. His grades are good enough, he knows that. All he lacks is official documentation to back up his claim. He dressed for the part, today, wearing his hair held tight under his hat, a petticoat he just bought covering rather neutral clothes underneath. The weather is far too hot for this kind of clothes, but he decides it's worth the pain. As far as names go, Hermann sounds right, sounds safe, sounds like the name he wants to get married as. That if, if he ever gets married.

But he's already reached his destination. His first impression of Heidelberg is that of a big city, even bigger than the one he currently lives in, which is something. But soon he gets carried away by the flow of the mob exiting the station, and he barely has enough time to ask for the University, before being dragged in another direction by this flood of people. Trust a countryman to not know anything about urban customs. And it takes him an hour and a half, but he finds it.

The inscription on the front of the building reads _The Living Spirit,_ and it seems convincing enough, in a University with so many important minds. Frankly, the man he's most looking forward to meeting is Herr Radbruch, a law philosopher who helped give women access to the justice system ; and maybe that Martin Dibelius who wrote a very controversial critic of the New Testament, just because Hermann likes it when people swim against the stream. The second motto of the University is _the book of learning is always open_ , and, as he paces through the corridors, detailing each student he sees, who all look very intelligent and cultivated, he has to admit it seems to be very much true.

Afterwards, he still has to find the Medical School, which finds itself in the southern part of the University, just next to the river Neckar, on Neuenheimer Feld. He's fairly certain he's in the right place, but still, Gerta von Ubitsch's office is nowhere to be seen, and neither is von Ubitsch herself, which is definitely not a good sign. He asks for directions, gets shrugs and “no idea”s in return, and, half an hour later, starts pondering whether or not he should pick another strategy.

“Young man !”

Is he the one they're talking to ? He lets the person call again twice before finally turning around. The call was most definitely aimed at him, because he now finds himself facing eye-to-eye a middle-aged woman with dark blonde hair, whose eyes look a little bit like Karla's.

“I'm Gerta von Ubitsch, please to meet you. A student told me you were looking for me. Would you, by any chance, be that Hermann Einstein my daughter told me about ?”

Yes, yes, he most certainly is, he answers, beaming and glowing and smiling like an idiot in his inner self.

“Well, I didn't expect you until tomorrow. Maybe we should head to my office, and you can explain to me what's the matter.”

They cross the gigantic hallways, her knowing perfectly where to go, him doing his best to keep up with her fast pace and long legs, and trying to process what is probably the best day of his 20-years-long life.

“Well, my name is Hermann Einstein ( _the name already feels familiar and homey under his tongue)_ , as Karla- I mean, miss von Ubitsch must have told you. I am currently applying to enter Heidelberg's Medical School. This university. I've passed the exams, last month, and am now eligible.”(He's never been so happy that the first name is not mentioned on the exam papers, only a picture, and he had no problem putting one where he looked like a boy. Probably the first time in his life that the stars have aligned in his favor.)

“And you wanted to see me because... ?” She doesn't sound inquisitive, really, just curious.

“Well, the thing is my hometown's city hall burned down a month ago, because of an unfortunate moment of distraction. It was the mayor's gardener, he's an old man already. Which results in me not having any birth certificate to prove my identity.” Of course, he's straight up lying to her face, an not a very good lie at that, but this is the best he can do, and if it's not enough then it's over.

“Yes,” von Ubisch replies quickly, “this is most regrettable. But you understand that it will cause great problems in the administrative system of the university, if one of our students is undocumented.”

“Yes, I fully understand your concern, Frau Professor, but I am not undocumented. I brought with me several prescriptions by a certified doctor.” (Who, he doesn't mention, happens to be his endocrinologist, who he appropriately asked for those papers before stopping his treatment.)

She browses through the papers quickly. Karla warned him that her mother's first reflex would probably be to assume he was an undocumented Jew from Eastern Europe trying to settle down in Germany, because of the geopolitical situation in the continent and because of his accent ; he'd rather have von Ubisch think that, or anything else, for that matter, than for her to know the truth.

“Well, you would need a teacher of this school to stand surety for you, my boy. I, of course, would have no objection to implementing this role. But I need to know who I am risking my credibility for. Karla said she trusted you fully, which she very rarely does, but I'm afraid we'll need a little more than that. How long before you get a new birth certificate ? Can't you enter next year, once you have it ?”

Now, he certainly wasn't prepared for this. “I don't expect to get another one before the next few months or so. Our administration service is so slow... Little towns tend to be this way, you know. But I have no objection to passing a normal test, and, all modesty aside, my results as a student are high enough for me to be admitted in this University.”

“We are the ones that get to have a say on that part,” she replies, but she seems neither cold nor angry. “Very well. I must tell you that if you actually happen to be Karl Denke undercover, I congratulate you, for you sure know how to tell a lie and sound convincing. I'd rather not think about the possibility of you being a serial killer, though. You asked for a test, fair enough ; but I have neither the time nor the competences to provide you with a written one in the next hour. Therefore, a practice test will have to do.”

Fingers cross themselves automatically underneath the table, praying silently for this exam to be anything but a real-case diagnosis – it is and has always been his weak point.

“Surely you've done one or two of them before – so let's settle on a dissection. You have an hour.”

A sleepless night spent at some cheapish hotel in the East of the city later, Hermann Einstein shows up at 11 A.M sharp at the University, and finds out he is officially admitted at Heidelberg's Medical School as a first-year student, and that he is to begin his classes on September, 3, 1927\. He signs any paper they give him, pledge “ _Bei meiner Aufnahme in den ärztlichen Berufsstand..._ ” and exits the building under a surprisingly hot July sun, whistling his favorite tune, _In the Hall of the Mountain_ _K_ _ing,_ as he heads to the railway station.

First thing he does when he gets home is collapse on his bed because the weather's so hot, he's unable to stand. He also has big trouble processing that he has, in fact, entered Heidelberg.

Everything feels surreal now, like the fact that he entered a course where most students were normal boys, that he found an apartment in the city even though he was 18 and unmarried, that he works as a waitre// waiter, that he earns money, which is something his mother would've never dreamed of doing when she was his age. Normal boys do these things all the time, but it feels special because it's _him_ , because everyone keeps thinking he's a girl and that therefore he shouldn't do the things he does. Now he still has yet to find lodging in Heidelberg, but by then he'll probably be manly enough to be “Herr”'d in the streets, and it sure will make everything easier – he never fully realized that once he gets read as a man everywhere, in every situation in his life, a disproportionate amount of doors will suddenly open themselves for him. He can't wait.

In the meantime, there are a few adjustments that need to be made. Like cutting his hair. Buying suits. Standing straighter, speaking louder, taking up more space than the girls, being tall and large, being mean, being proud, standing  up for himself , fist fighting, being a womanizer, holding his liquor like a gentleman, knowing  his place in the world. Because that's what  being  a man means, right ? He could have just kept on being a girl if he  didn't want that.

But thing is, he doesn't want that. Not all of it. Not the noise, not the height, not the fights, not the womanizing. That feels as foreign to him as being a girl. Those thoughts are not pleasant ones to have, not easy to consider, throwing him in pits of perplexity. Which results in a few gulps of schnapps, now he's found out that this is one of the things that help the most.

And also a decision to go back to his hometown.

  
  


Not “go back” as in “settle there”, not in a thousand years, not now that he's  going to Heidelberg for good ; “go back” as in “chase off a few ghosts, kill a couple of demons and  ventilate the place.” Which he does.  He hasn't talked with his parents in weeks, hasn't told them about the hormones, is considering whether or not they should be informed that he's been accepted in University. The communication between them has grown thinner over the past couple of months, and is now reduced to a letter every two months or so.

As soon as he sits in the omnibus taking him to his hometown (it's not very far, a small two-hours trip for a hundred of kilometers or so) he starts  regretting his decision.  Being afraid. Afraid of meeting up with his parents, of course, even though he doesn't plan to talk to them. Just  arrive and say goodbye. It's highly unrealistic that he could go there and just avoid everyone, but he holds on that dream, just so he can get enough courage to not jump out of the omnibus. Nothing  has changed  in the landscape, even though he hasn't been home in over a year now, and it scares him ; that everything will remain the same forever, same people, same states of mind, same pain, same silence. His legs are shaking so hard he has trouble walking off the bus, and he almost misses the station.

He needs to gather some valor before going to the house of his youth. So he first heads to his other goal : the suit. The suit. The suit. The suit he's dreamed of owning his own life. There's no way in hell he has enough money (or enough courage) to get a suit tailored, because that would involve him being naked ; plus, it's almost impossible that they would accept to tailor him a suit, with him having... well, the body he has. He has to admit the only real option left is to get one in his house. His father's collection of suits is impressive, given how little money they have ; most of them he never uses. This is just his way of displaying wealth, of telling himself he isn't poor.

Now that he's stuck between going to his parents' house and going to his parents' house, there's not much of a decision left. So  Hermann ducks his head between his shoulders and heads straigh t there.  It's Sunday morning, everyone's in church and the streets are empty ; so far no one he knows  has seen him, or at least they didn't recognize him. He reaches for his key, manages to enter at third try. The smell hits him instantly. The sight. The plates, the table, the rooms. He has to get out of here, he has to go as fast as he can, because of all things he didn't expect this :  _nostalgia_ .

_Nostalgia for a childhood you never liked, for people who didn't know who you are, for a town where you never had any friends_ , he tell s himself. But this is no use. Tears are beginning to dwell at the corner of his eyes, and he surely doesn't want to know how they feel against his five-o-clock shadow. The changes are there, even though he temporarily stopped the treatment, and soon it won't be possible to cover them up. He has to do it now,  the severing of ties . He has to do it now, that's what he repeats himself out loud, just so he can find the energy to reach for his father's wardrobe and take out a full suit (shirt, vest, trousers, suspenders, everything), then find his mother's drawer, and take out a pair of scissors.

_Hermann, Hermann, Hermann, Hermann, Hermann,_ he repeats, like a mantra, as his once-long locks of hair fall down on the floor, as he slides in the shirt that fits him almost perfectly.

_Hermann,_ that begins like Heidelberg, and he can't stop saying it until he's safe back to his apartment, in the other town,  after a two-hours omnibus trip he spends shaking against the window, and he knows he's made it, with a shirt a size too big and uneven hair  which he slicks back because that's the only way he knows how to  comb it.

The hat makes it all easier. Only when he puts it on does he remember how to actually breathe, how to be happy for all he did, and he can finally realize there are things waiting for him ahead.

  
  


Finding  a job in 1927 in Germany isn't too hard (at least not as hard as it will be two years later, but Hermann has no way of knowing that, has he ?) ; plus Heidelberg always was and remains a rich city, full of opportunities for hard-working guys like him. He still avoids factories like the plague, but he does find a job as a waiter (some things don't change) in a rather fancy restaurant at the  E ast of the city, not too far away from the center. That is definitely a change, considering the  lousiness of the waiting job he used to have, and that upgrade does show on the paycheck they promise him.

Finding  an apartment  (because that most definitely is his second concern) isn't insurmountable either , when one finds oneself in so big a city, with so many young students there. It is  nonetheless considerably harder when you have no document or parents willing to back up your claim. But Hermann manages it all the same. A small,  second-rate apartment, but cheap and with  in curious landlords that call him “ Herr Einstein”, this is all he asks for. He has little luggage, but he still has to go back and forth to his  former apartment twice, just so he can carry everything (his small build doesn't allow him to take more than one bag at once) and properly say goodbye to... well, the two people left in this town that he cares about :  his former doctor and Karla von Ubitsch. He does so, quickly but honestly, knowing full well he'll probably never see either of them again.

The afternoon he settles in Heidelberg, he decides to do something he's never done before ; meaning, going to see a motion picture in the movie theater. This is a luxury neither his hometown nor his high school town could offer ; the town of his Biology course did, but he never had the money to attend th e screenings. Now, he still doesn't have the money, but he wants to start his new life good and proper, and he's daydreamed about these moving, talking pictures more than he's willing to admit. This is a very recent movie, a very German one, too. But  it still gets him to travel farther than his wildest dreams. He holds his breath for almost two hours, and exits the theater so star-struck and so amazed he buys a rather expensive poster of the movie at the shop (another one of his lifelong dreams). The poster features two young people, separated by a shiny, feminine-looking machine, towering a futuristic background ; the caption reads “ _ Metropolis _ ”.

What most caught his eye, though, was the metaphor for the heart between the hands and the head. Humanity, its definition, its limits, still fascinate him as bad as ever. And upon hearing the final lines of the movie, he found himself reaching for his ribcage with two fingers, taking the pulse of his heart, wondering whether some day there will be someone who will help him keep time, heart more open than in any possible surgery.

What he knows is that, at the end of the movie, the applause surely does sound like a very erratic heartbeat.


	4. Staring into his reflection (shed his skin for something tougher)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wonders if, like a snake, he might-

The first morning he wakes up in Heidelberg, he stumbles across his wardrobe of a room, half-awake, and seems almost surprised by the sight of his reflection staring back at him in the mirror. Those are the features he's seen his whole life, sure, but they are now framed by short, messy hair, and his petite silhouette is covered by a cheap white button-up man shirt. This is no stranger looking back at him. The lines in the mirror seem to look more and more like _him._ He smiles, and the curve of his lips matches the ones on his chest.

Those _things_ have never bothered him much before ; he didn't have them binded when he went for his appointment with von Ubitsch before entering Heidelberg, and he got sir'd all the same. But now is... different. And he wants to try it out, see how it fits him, like a fashionable new bowtie.

Of course, he's learned about the aftermath of chest constriction, the bruises, the broken ribs, the unwanted pressure on the lungs, and what wasn't in the books he figured out by himself. Most of what he knows come from the way his mother was always held by a corset, and his aunt, and every woman he's ever known (apart from the working-class ones), corsets so tight he could practically hear their spines and organs howling in pain.

Yet there he is, browsing through his possessions frenetically, until the bandages appear, between the syringes and the flask. And there he stands, hands shaking as he cautiously applies bandages to skin, in a way he's done a couple times before for patients, and the wound of all the _shes_ and the _daughters_ gets swallowed by the fabric. He stops only when his breasts are binded tight enough to cancel the curves, until he can close the last button of his shirt, tuck it into his trousers, and exit the door like he's dreamed of doing forever.

  


There's this odd thing about Heidelberg – about the Medical School, that is – where everyone genuinely seems more interesting and educated than anywhere else in the world. Anywhere else he's been to. Maybe it's just how the gold of the gates reflects itself on the students' faces when they cross the entrance, maybe it is the sheer magnificence of the place, he couldn't tell. But he's been there for a week and it still amazes him each time he enters the school. They are loud and bright and talented, an aura that seems to lighten up whichever room they enter ; something like charisma, like power, and he's never seen anything quite like that in his hometown.

In his apartment, there is a mirror, and a big one at that, two feet long and one foot wide, which probably is the only luxury of the place. In the morning, he spends long minutes staring at the reflexion, at his pitch black pop-eyes, the soft shape of his face, his hairline an inch too low, mouth an inch too wide, he studies himself as if trying to find something in his features, as bright and drawing as theirs. Sure, he isn't unattractive, and those eyes that looked overwhelming and out of place on a girl's face, appear mysterious and a tiny bit seducing on the man he is. Masculinity suits him well. Ties, slicked-back hair and stubble suit him well.

He's been there for a few weeks now, and he's noticed the changes. Both the internal and the external ones. How teachers now seem more interested in what he says, how men he never spoke to come after class to chat with him about elaborate topics. And the changes in himself, in his own confidence, too ; how he stands straighter, how he dares look at people in the eyes. (He's found out that, much to his liking, people can't stare back, because of how far apart his eyes are. It never fails to amuse him. A nice student's life offer few distractions.)

  


Heidelberg is a student city, and like any of these, it has countless clubs where students go when they are not... well, studying. And Hermann's never really wanted to go to any of these – partly because of the noise, partly because he doesn't know anyone in the city, partly because nothing gets his head clouded and his hands shaking like dissecting a heart, so what's the point of those clubs ? (That's a lie he likes to tell himself.) Whenever he does really need a drink, he knows there's always a bottle of schnapps somewhere below the desk of the librarian (and he's stayed there after closing time more than once, because his teachers trust him and let it slip) and well, he may use it from time to time when he stays up late studying. It's not like anyone notices, because none of the employees there would think the mysterious disappearance of schnapps bottle come from this tiny student who's always buried under a pile of books. Plus, he's gotten used to the burn, to the dizziness, to the dissociation, as if he no longer belonged to his body, through these years of hiding back in his hometown. It helps him functioning.

The only minor inconvenience – apart from not helping him a lot, when it comes to studying – is that it does set off a hallucination or two, when he gets a little too far ; once or twice he's seen a shadow in the corridors, or heard a voice, or seen the tables get a bit blurred. One time, really, he caught a glimpse of a silhouette before the corridor windows, haloed by the city lights, and it looked too real and too human to be anything but an intoxicated vision.

Other nights – but not too often, never too often, because his obsession with getting his degree with honors rarely allows hip to skip study nights – he wanders downtown, hat low on his eyes, trying hard to look as neutral, as respectable as possible. (All he wants is not to look like a student ; because he's ashamed of his youth, somehow, because he stares at his shoes whenever facing a middle-aged man.) Some of these bars are normal, and some of these bars are in areas full of deranged, inverted, queer beings, all freaks or monsters or a mix of both, and they have their own clubs, even though none of Heidelberg's students go there – as far as he knows. He still has yet to figure out how he feels about this. He walks up and down the streets, enjoying the night air, framed by an over-sized coat, all detached- and mature-looking. The only thing he has yet to correct, though, is the stupid smile that always finds its way to his lips whenever he gets called “mister”. No, Hermann doesn't enjoy the nightlife much, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to.

  


  


These are the studies he's always dreamed of, of course, and he thanks a God he doesn't even believe in (maybe the same one he begged for testosterone a year ago) for allowing him to be here. But still, this is a lot of work, a lot more than he's ever had before, and each night he collapses on his bed of exhaustion. A month in his first year, he's already passed out twice and got countless headaches. Needless to say, he hasn't gotten the time to get back on testosterone. The expression “get the time to do something” is misleading, though, because he manages to find time when it comes to staring at the city lights by his window or attending advanced medical conferences in town. Truth is, everything takes time processing, and he tends to get overwhelmed. So he gives himself a month.

Once he's made sure he's not going to fail his first year if he takes five minutes here and there to take care of himself, he figures he can allow himself a hobby or two. And one of his _favorites_ hobbies is reading. Not highbrow books or intellectual poems, no, newspapers. He enjoys reading the news as much as the next person, but not the headlines, which are always filled with boring information about some Congressman's sex life or some scandal with the French government ; no, his favorites are the _Faits diver_ _s_. Babies chopped to pieces, jails burnt down by pyromaniacs, bodies maimed by acid. The guys of the pictures always either have those hilarious dog-like faces or straight-up terrifying ones. He's seen some of the latter around school, especially this young, unbelievably tall guy with the sharp jaw and the cheekbones, a face that stands out if there ever was one. Sometimes, he finds himself looking for that guy whenever he's in the corridors.

Sadly, such events as depicted in the papers never happen in his school, and he's stuck learning about it all in theory when all he wants is bodies under his hands.

“Oh, is that the Charlottenburg Ghoul ? He was all over the news in February- so he's at it again !”

The voice makes Hermann turn around in a blink, unused as he is to somebody disturbing him when he's busy reading. It belongs to a guy around his age, with a mole next to the nose – thin lips, complexion somewhat dark, something a bit horse-like about his long face. But not unattractive altogether. As much as he hates it, Hermann's still plain unable to meet someone for the first time without thoroughly scanning their features. This is developing into a very bad habit.

“He... Yes, that's him. Killed a couple in Mitte,” he replies, unsure of what is expected of him in this conversation.

“I've seen you around,” the other guy explains, “always looking down with those heavy-lidded eyes of yours. You forgot your newspaper in the classroom once, with the crime page splayed open. I should have figured there was another creep like me in here. We're in the same year, by the way. Know me ?”

As secretly elated as he is by the idea of not going unnoticed, Hermann can't help but feel an irrational irritation towards his interlocutor – maybe it is the speed of his delivery, or the choice of words, but something about the guy unsettles him. Still, he doesn't leave.

“Yes, maybe,” he utters. “I... read those articles from time to time. Helps pass time.”

“That sure is an understatement – I'd swear you always seem neck-deep in your readings – when you're not busy acing all the tests ! Herr Brewster is head over heels for you, lucky guy. Because he sure is influent, too, and you're getting quite an ally in him. Hey, we haven't been introduced, my name's Fritz.”

Praise, information, introduction – Hermann feels a headache coming. Truth is, he hasn't had so quick a conversation in months, and the occasional words he exchanges with the other students didn't prepare him for this.

“Yes, Professor Brewster is an excellent teacher,”, he says uneasily, “but – um – actually, I'd really like to finish this, if you don't mind.”

“Come on,” Fritz jolts, “so clever a student shouldn't waste his time with this illiterate crap. Say, what do you even do when you're not in school ? I never see you downtown.”

God, he definitely has an headache now. That Fritz kid sounds like the exact type he wanted to avoid by attending a prestigious university – an entitled moron who squanders his parent's money, spends his time at the _Kneipe_ and gives up after six months. A moron who goes to bars, and clubs, and to all those stupid places, places Hermann would... places he wouldn't mind visiting, actually.

So Hermann stands up and leaves the conversation, and that should have meant the end of their interactions, and the last time he ever speaks to Fritz, because Hermann's positive there are much more interesting students to talk to – until they're having their first dissection of the year, and he's so focused on his heart pounding and beating in his chest as his instruments find their way through the sheep liver that he doesn't notice Fritz is done fifteen minutes before he is.

Yes, Fritz. The same one. A Fritz who's surprisingly quiet even after he's done, and wipes the blood off his elbow ( _a messy practician he is_ , Hermann notes) with a peaceful smile on his face.

A Fritz who gets congratulated and patted on the back by Herr Brewster himself, an “Excellent work, my son”, with a lingering New York accent on some words. Brewster has been in Heidelberg for four years, or so he's heard, but he's been in Germany for nine, and a renowned practician for decades, and he sports his silver mustache like a man who knows he's famous across several oceans.

And Hermann isn't jealous, he's excited. Because he came to Heidelberg for this. Because he can feel himself to be a better surgeon already. Because Herr Brewster doesn't congratulate him that day, but Hermann pledges to himself that he will again before next Tuesday.

Yes, Hermann is curious. Intrigued. Puzzled. Wondering who this Fritz is, why he comes off as extroverted and outgoing but never talks with anyone in the university, based on Hermann's observations. Who does he hang out with, which bars does he attend, which company does he seek, if not the one of the other students ? Is there even anyone else to hit the counters with, around here ?

They haven't talked since the first time Fritz spoke to him, but the guy smiles at him whenever they cross each other's path. Smirking like he knows he's won. Won what, Hermann doesn't know exactly.

  


Apart from his considerations about his classmates, needless to say, Hermann's quickly grown familiar with the school library.

His and Fritz' results are identical, most of the time ; Hermann would find it incredibly frustrating if it wasn't for the number of times he's seen the other man leave the school just as late as he does, if it wasn't for the amount of extra work he knows Fritz puts himself through. Maybe he isn't as annoyed by him as he was when they met. Maybe he doesn't think so ill of him now. Just maybe.

One day he remembers the strange, queer bars he saw one night - maybe that's where Fritz goes. Maybe that's who Fritz's friends are. Would make sense. But he doesn't like to push that thought too much, because it sparkles that uncomfortable feeling in his chest, so he ignores it.

  


Then a week has passed, a week of _maybe_ and _what if_ and h e's come up with every single excuse he could find – having to work late, some paper he had to turn it, a headache, bad weather – any excuse he could tell himself in order _not_ to go to those intriguing, appealing bars down south. Because he wants to go, but he doesn't want to let himself want it. Perhaps it's his sick pride again, not wanting to admit Fritz actually sparkled his interest. But some nights he wants to go so bad that it gets hard to breathe, and not because of the bandages around his chest, the way it usually is.

He ends up going. He has to. Magda's fancy hat, a fresh-shined pair of leather shoes, his best tie, and off he goes, regularly wiping his hands with his handkerchief in nervousness.  
He passes by a hundred of normal bars, where he does spot some of his classmates, looking all cheerful and very much drunk. All dressed in a very normal fashion, all kissing and groping women who seem more or less consenting. Not the bars he's looking for. Not the world which caught his attention.

He walks for what seems like hours, he could have walked all the way back to his hometown in the same timespan, mainly because he doesn't know where to go, partly because he has no idea how to estimate distances. He walks for what seems like hours, before he spots, out of the corner of his eye, a man with high heels, and he hides his smile under his coat and follows him.

The man turns left and vanishes in a bar, in some back-alley he never would have spotted on his own ; a mess of tuxedos, boas, beards, bright platinum hair and fish stockings, in any possible combination. The very air inside feels different, heavier, damper. His head would be spinning if he wasn't battling so hard to stay focused.

Three observations, that require an extremely unusual amount of concentration of him, especially after the schnapps he's been offered at the bar ( _first time_ , said the barman with a knowing smile).

1\. he is probably the only person that looks remotely normal here, his chest well hidden, his features mostly masculine, his clothes the most typical and boring in the world. It makes him feel both relieved and frustrated ;

2\. he's fairly positive a good ninety per cent of the clients _swing the other way around (or both ways)_ as his mother would say with fear in her voice ;

3\. the remaining ten per cent, in all likeness, must be people like him ; that is, may be straight, but still _not normal_ because of the body they were born in, clashing with the people they are. That's what he deduces, with an amateur's eye, by the curves or lack thereof of the people in the bar. It makes him feel so less alone, so true, some warm fuzzy feeling he usually only gets by dissecting.

The barman's free drink is soon followed by another ; by then he's taken off his vest and sits on a stool, in a striped shirt with a black waistcoat. Two women are kissing hungrily on his right and he does his best to hide his blushing behind the thick whiskey glass.

“Courtesy of that man over there,” says the bartender with a chin gesture, and Hermann assumes that's where his second glass comes from. The man that supposedly bought him the drink is not bad-looking – he sort of looks like the tall scary man of the corridors. Hermann's not the kind of man who says no to free booze, and being seen as a man is already incredible enough a feeling, so being seen as _a man desirable by other men_ is priceless.

His eyes are closed, he tries his best to register everything of the present moment, the seducing man making his way towards him, probably ready to buy him any drink he wants, the smoke ( _not just cigarettes_ ), the lingering scent of fancy whiskey and cheap beer, the high-pitched voices, an atmosphere so homey he's fairly sure its like can not be found anywhere else in town.

A hand touches his shoulder – he turns around - and instead of meeting the man's dark hungry eyes, he finds himself facing Fritz. Red-faced, merry, disheveled Fritz, dress in a very un-school-like fashion, if he may say so.

“You came ! I knew you would, sneaky bastard, from the moment I saw you – trust you to find that heaven among all the shitholes in this town.”

Hermann hesitates. “Oh, well, hello. I didn't – expect to find you here. You look – happy.”

“Course I am, in so good a company,” (Fritz places a sloppy kiss on his interlocutor's cheek.) “That interaction the other day, left me thirsty for more” (and he downs Hermann's drink in a single glup.)

“Leave that,” Hermann cringes with a frown. “It was a gift. From that man there.” Good old competitive spirit surfaces back, as if he was trying to prove that he was doing very fine on his own without Fritz, thank you very much. The man in question stands ten feet away from the two students, obviously disappointed that his target has found someone else to spend the night with. Even though he pretends not to look at them, Hermann can see him looking at the two of them from time to time, apparently waiting for Fritz to leave so he can resume his chase.

“Oh, forgive me, dear Hermann, should have known, you walk in there getting every gentleman in your pocket-” Fritz casts a side-glance at the man, who's still waiting, “-fancy one, at that. So you took a break from books, huh ? I dare say you didn't stumble here straight from that beloved library of ours.”

Fritz suddenly grabs Hermann's arms in a drunken, but strong nonetheless, way.

“Come on now, I want to introduce our national big-brained surgeon to my friends there.”

Hermann hesitates for a second, finding himself scanning the crowd for the gentleman from before. But Fritz interrupts him.

“Drop that, lover boy. You'll like mine better. None of mine are gentlemen.”

  


The hammer stuck somewhere in Hermann's forehead sounds a lot like beer glasses clinking together – with none of the pleasantness of that idea. Morning light shines through the window – the dark light of a cloudy day, but light nonetheless. Thanks God, oh _thanks God_ he has no classes today, because he's not certain he can make it to the front door.

“ _I knew you swung that way, I knew it,” Fritz exclaims, pinching Hermann's cheeks as they walk across the bar towards some table in the back, “and boy do I hate being wrong – but you didn't disappoint me, old chap.”_

_This is the friendliest anyone's ever been to Hermann within minutes of meeting him. (Well. Their awkward first interaction doesn't count as a meeting.)_

“ _Anyone from school here ?”_

“ _A couple, if you know where to look, but most of them hang out in more respectable (understand boring) places. There's this tacit code among the few of us who do come here, that we are to stay away from each other while we're in the bar. But don't worry, I'll find you plenty of buff guys. With that adorable lost puppy look of yours you'll get them weak in the knees.”_

Hermann stumbles across the room, splashing some water on his face. It is raining hard and heavy, black clouds casting a foggy light on the city, as if protecting his tired eyes from too bright a light.

“ _So that was your secret ? The reason you keep those cute little eyes hidden from us mere men ?” Fritz keeps talking and talking as the two of them sit a table, welcomed by a loud cheer, and Hermann finds himself a chair that he drags to the table._

_He manages to remain silent, which, considering the amount of alcohol in his blood and the loud, joyful atmosphere of the place, turns out to take a lot of willpower. He needs to think this through, what he's going to say, how he's going to say it. But then he notices that Fritz's friends are not paying any attention to the two of them right now – they're busy betting on their respective chances at getting a doe-eyed blond boy at the back of the bar in their bed before midnight._

“ _Part of,” he finally replies, as evasive as he can._

“ _Oh, so you swing both ways ? No, let me guess – you're married ? You're a wanted criminal ?” Fritz smiles turns into a mischievous one “you didn't follow Herr Brewster in bed for good grades, now, did you ?” Hermann's vigorous protests don't stop him. “Well, some other teacher, then ?”_

“ _My body,” Hermann blurts it out without really meaning to, “is different from... the other guy's.”_

He has a shift at the restaurant, today, at three o'clock, which means he should get going in half an hour at most. But he can't picture himself working around food right now, considering how the thought alone makes him downright nauseous. Things are going good financially (even though it's the first time of his life that he has to manage it entirely on his own, with all the cons of such a system) and he figures he can miss one day. He tries to go back to sleep, but the raindrops pound too hard on the windowsill for him to even keep his eyes closed.

“ _You're an eunuch ?”_

“ _No.”_

“ _Hermaphrodite ?”_

“ _No.”_

“ _But...” Fritz's eyes drift from the other man's eyes downwards, and for the first time they focus attentively on his chest. And what he sees makes him sober up immediately. “Oh.”_

_But his friends are already trying to get the two of them back in the conversation (the one who won the bet has bought a round for all six of them). The guy just on Hermann's left, a quiet one, is a thirty-something thin-lipped man with a small mustache bubbling over the mouth – he notices that his neighbor is staring at him and stares back, with something in his eyes that's reminiscent of the gentleman from earlier. Hermann is left wondering why he's attracted more men in the past few hours than in five years of his normal life._

_So he downs his drink, cheered by all four of Fritz's acquaintances, trying his best to ignore his classmate's regular uneasy glances in his direction._

The hours fall by, as he nurses the headache with black coffee and some quick splays of cold water in the face. Now Fritz _knows_ , meaning someone in Heidelberg knows, someone he's not even _friends_ with – this is no good. But Fritz's words last night, no matter how clumsy, found their way in nonetheless, and he finds himself wondering whether maybe, just maybe, his classmate could be right, especially in the last thing he said.

“ _You are a- a- you have a woman's body, then ?”_

_Hermann wouldn't describe it that way, but then again he knows of no other way to put it, so he nods. “I'm a man. No surgeries done, but still.”_

“ _A man. Stuck in- in a girl's body. Jesus Christ, I've never seen any of these before. Not full time. You're damn good at this, Hermann- say, what's your real name ?”_

_Hermann shrugs, in a there-are-more-important-issues-to-discuss manner._

“ _So that's where that feeling came from,” Fritz scratches his head, “that queer aura around you. I just figured you were a Schwule like me- should've known better, should've known better.”_

_Hermann's eyes wander for a second to the mustached man's dry lips, but he's quick to pull himself together._

“ _I am. I, uh, am a man, who loves men, like you do. Maybe women. Mostly men.”_

_Now Fritz looks more puzzled than ever, agape and silent, quiet like he only ever is in dissections, but far more bewildered. Ignoring their hushed conversation, Hermann's neighbour has come closer to him, smiling, introducing himself in a whisper that gets drowned by the background noise, but whose apparent purpose seemed to be to allow him to get his lips close to Hermann's face. The young man's entire body is tense and melting at the same time, and he can't seem to focus on all that happens – the man's lips, Fritz's questions, the thick air of the room._

His meager end-of-the-month remainders can't get him very far, but he still manages to get himself a good beer at the _Kneipe –_ fight fire with fire, as they say – once he manages to stumble out of his apartment in one piece. There, no risk to run into Fritz, or any other student, for that matter. The neighborhood he lives in is a cheap crappy one, light-years away from the restaurant where he works, or from the University. There live only those who can't afford it anywhere else. Meaning factory workers, most of all.

Most students, he reckons, live right by the river, where the University stands. Here, whenever the wind blows, it brings a disturbing smell of dampness and coal, from the factories in the South, cast on the outsides of the city. Hermann misses sleeping with the window open but what was possible in a small town isn't in Heidelberg, in so big a city, in so grimy a district, with the noise that won't let him sleep, with the scent of adulterated alcohol that comes from the street under his building. The workers go South every morning and come home every night, which makes the quarter a rather busy one on Sundays. Other nights, it's just the laughs and cheers and sounds of broken glasses that mix up with the insults, the sounds of fists hitting skin, in streets where no vehicle ever goes, in streets where the only noises are human, leaving both factory machines and expensive cars for other areas.

The headache does fade away a little after a few swallows, and he rubs both his temples vigorously, though it doesn't turn out to be as effective as the alcohol.

_The mustached man has gone to the counter to order drinks for the two of them (buying someone a drink, here, appears to be the most common manner of courtship, based on Hermann's recent experience), and Fritz jumps on that opportunity to finish their conversation._

“ _But you're – you're a woman or – if you like men, with that body- it's...”_

_But Hermann doesn't answer, just smile with a drunken grin, both because he's plain happy to be there flirting with attractive men and getting free booze, but also because this is the first time he sees Fritz so confused, so not-smug, not-superior. Men like Fritz surely aren't used to finding someone queerer than them. Maybe that's how Hermann finds the nerve to let out a sassy comment, one he couldn't utter in a breath sober :_

“ _You mean I should fit in more into society, huh ? I'm too deviant, right ?”_

_Fritz freezes and for a while he looks like he might punch the lights out of his interlocutor ; a dirty, heavy ten seconds of silence between them. Then he bursts out laughing, a loud, inebriated laugh, as if none of this mattered in the face of tipple and dashing men._

“ _You are most wild and unpredictable, boy,” Fritz says once he's recovered from his laughing fit, “but friend's advice, you could cut those out,” pointing at Hermann's chest, “for starters. That is, if you want to. Could do you some good if you wish to be horizontal with Lothar here,” pointing at Hermann's catch,”or any other guy, for that matters. Figure I could find you some guy who does it – I'd be damned if I don't know of any.”_

_And Fritz seems elated that it's now Hermann's turn to stare at him wide-eyed in utter disbelief._

And the moment he gets back home, tipsy and reeling, the moment he staggers inside, he instantly takes his shirt off and reaches for his chest – which have never felt as foreign as it does now. The bandages have left marks on his skin, ribcage dyed permanently pink because of the constriction, some days taking it as far as leaving bruises on the sides. But now there's no way he can live without it – now that for the first time of his life people always get his name right, now that the stubble on his chin, the line of his jaw, the structure of his face mean _man_. He wants to get back on testosterone as soon as possible, but now he has to admit he might also want something else – want those excrescence on his chest gone, want a silhouette he could stand to look at in daylight. Did it really have to be Fritz, of all people, to light that sparkle in him again ? That wish from a flatter chest that haunted his childhood ? Fritz that told him he knows where this can get done, Fritz that always seems to find his way around things, unpredictable and stupid, and Hermann is way, way too tired to think about that now.

All that matters is that the next day, when strapping his chest the way he does every morning, he tightens the tape just _slightly_ more.

  


Surely his professors have noticed that something is off, that he is not entirely focused, not every inch the brilliant student they know. Because Herr Brewster talks to him at some point ; rather, he pretends to ask him for help to tidy the classroom after a dissection Hermann has accomplished slightly less brilliantly than usual. And when they're done, and Hermann is about to leave for the library, Brewster gets to the point. A detached, matter-of-factly :

“Have anything been on your mind, lately, my boy ?”

Hermann freezes. He remembers Brewster is a doctor, and a very, very experimented one, meaning he might now a thing or two about anatomy, and see through all the tricks Hermann has pulled to cancel his curves. But he soon reassures himself. There's no way Brewster could know what his students plan to do and to not do with their chests.

“Nothing in particular, sir.”

He's still amazed at how masculine his voice sounds now, not only to himself (he's always known his voice was one of a man, even when it was high-pitched) but to others, now, too. A low voice is one of the last effect of the hormones, his doctor told him back when he followed the treatment, but also one of the most irreversible effects. A fortunate thing that is, which allows him to not go back to a thirteen-years-old-girl's voice even though he's been off hormones for over four months now.

“You've just seemed a bit lost in your thoughts lately”, Brewster adds, his underlying American accent still preventing him for pronouncing German perfectly. Just like Hermann's English is still flawed, even though he studies in the books, in case he wants to have a successful career in the USA one day, and even though he practices with an English student he sees from time to time at the library. Hermann sometimes wishes learning languages was as clockwork as medicine – but then he remembers that medicine isn't clockwork, that the human body is a language of its own.

“Only the finals, sir. I am anxious, but so are the other students.”

“Whatever you say, young man. Make sure to take care of yourself, though.” Brewster shrugs in a way that means the discussion is over. Hermann jumps on the occasion to leave – mainly because he is falling behind on his homework, and he wants to get this work done as soon as he can.

But as he goes to leave the room, he notices someone, around his age, that enters the room as he exits it. He's seen him around before ; tall, slim, large hands at the edge of two slightly-too-long arms ; high cheekbones, hard features, skin complexion white and venous, two pitch black eyes making for most of the beauty of the face, and most of the menace of his aura. Yes, he's seen him before, definitely ; he walks in the corridors sometimes, or smokes in front of the school ; right now he's heading towards Herr Brewster who now looks much paler than he did ten seconds ago.

And Hermann wants to know who this boy is- who this _man_ is, because the term boy hardly fits this confident, muscular silhouette, nor the person it belongs to, someone whose body language screams _out of my way_ and _my place in this world_. But he doesn't ask. Doesn't linger around. He leaves the room and buries himself in his readings until he forgets the faded scar than ran at the left edge of the man's thin lips. And how he stared at it for five seconds straight.

  


As much as he doesn't want to avoid Fritz, he sort of does, at least by not acknowledging his presence in class or in the corridors. Things have gotten somehow awkward, mainly because they haven't talked this transvestite thing through. That's one of the reasons that drive him back to his studies that he had slightly neglected, ever since his first conversation with the young man. His mind is back on tracks and he's determined to make the most of the year. Now that he's able to focus on something else than the bars (he still has to admit that his attention drifts back to the other night way too often), he's once again able to do what he does best : study. Study as in “five hours a day at the very least”, study as in “I can't fall behind on a single subject.” That's his very own coping mechanism, in some way ; whenever he gets emotionally overwhelmed, there's one place that never fails to soothe him, as the attentive reader already knows. One clue : it is full of books. He hits the place often, both because of practical reasons (the amount of schoolwork he has to do is growing and growing without any signs of it ever stopping) and, also, aesthetic ones. This is basically the most beautiful place he's ever seen.

The sheer fact of having that many books in the same place (because none other school library can compare, and had anyone told him it would have half as many books, he would have called them a liar) makes for lots of the beauty, but even as, say, a café, it would still be one of his favorite places on Earth. Wherever he finds himself there, he can feel the gigantic shelves towering over his head, the many floors a promise of knowledge, a promise of power. There's something church-like in the absolute silence of the place, save for a few whispers which, if anything, make it an even holier place ; the shorter the days get, the earlier they turn on the lamps, and the longer he can enjoy their golden electric glow. Because that's when he most likes the place, out of all the hours he spends there ; in the evenings, when it is so light and bright that it drowns any light from outside, when the windows are nothing but black curtains shutting out the outside world.

It is golden, the place, a glow he'd only ever seen on the porch of Heidelberg, but splayed all over the library. Golden, in all shades and contrasts, and he's fairly sure there are only a few items which are authentically made of gold. This impression of stepping into a gemstone doesn't come from the actual precious metal ; instead, it comes from millions of little details, the polished mahogany of the shelves, the arabesques on the ceiling, picturing reveries he's never seen elsewhere, the books ranging from leather black to satin white. Luxury haloes everything, luxury and glory, glory and fame and prestige, all things he'd been dreaming of his whole life, because as sure as nothing is made of gold, nothing is mediocre here.

Each time he studies there he's reminded of why he left his home for good.

(And no, he's fairly positive the impressive quantity of drinks he's had from under the librarian's desk, in the three months he's been here, have nothing to do with his appreciation of the place.)

  


He's written to Karla last week, and didn't mention the serum, or her mother, once ; would've been inappropriate. Instead, he told her about the city, about the school, careful not to sound as if he was bragging. He didn't tell her about the bar, or the strange man in Brewster's office, but he mentioned Fritz in-passing, because he is the first guy... _acquaintance_ he's had in many a year.

And he waits for an answer, not knowing whether it will ever come, but it felt like the rightest thing to do.


	5. Hide your name everywhere (carry it home under my tongue)

As intrigued as he was by the face from Brewster’s office, Hermann didn't realistically expect it to appear again anywhere soon – not among a crowd of thousands, not without actively looking for him (which he was prepared to do, considering how interested he'd grown in the man), and certainly not in so short a timespan. “Short”, meaning two days. Two days of resuming his newspaper readings, (because he's fallen behind a bit on the recent events, but nothing big happened recently. Hindenburg said that he didn't believe Germany was to blame for the war, which caused a continent-wide bash – that's roughly all.)

Today he has a dissection scheduled. It's his third or fourth of the year already, and it's on a way different level ; for the first time, they are actually going to work on a real human body –albeit quite dead. A real human body, all nerves and veins, Hermann's fingertips turn stone cold at this very thought ; that's the way his body reacts to stimulation ( _intellectual or not_ ).

Every dissection exercise the first years have had so far, they've always found the exact same sight upon entering the amphitheater ; Brewster sitting at his desk, smiling peacefully, while some anonymous shadow went around the room ordering the instruments and getting everything ready. Brewster's assistants never last more than one or two classes – he's known in school as rather... difficult to live with, so none of the students bother learning the assistant's names, knowing they will leave soon anyway.

But that time, that assistant, is the odd one out ; an odd figure indeed, a lanky, skinny one, who does undoubtedly share some similarities in the shape of the nose with professor Brewster, and maybe some width of the jaw too. The figure is currently walking around the room, getting everything ready for the dissection, and it's a figure that Hermann instantly recognizes – the man from the teacher’s office. The same eyes. The same height. The same scar at the edge of his mouth – it’s small, from afar, but noticeable. It// _He_ gets introduced to the students as Herr Brewster's grandson.

Hermann seeks the palish look that covered the professor's face the only time he saw those two in the same room, the day before yesterday, that slight quiver of the hands, but none of it is there, right now. The old man breathes poise and education, as he always does in class.

Meanwhile, the grandson (unaware of Hermann’s burning eyes on him) is resting against one of the desks, both arms by his side, still and silent. He's handsome, all right. More handsome than anyone would have suspected of Brewster's grandkid. He also bears a disturbing likeness with shadows Hermann’s seen sometimes across the library's window – handsome, yes, not in a very typical way, all height and edges and sharpness, the ghostlike type, more blades than benevolence. Hermann blinks.

The dissection is a liver dissection, and, as we've already seen, a human one. He catches himself wondering in what state his liver will be when he donates his body to science, if he keeps up with Fritz's excursions and with late night study schnapps.

Or rather he pretends to care, pretends his eyes are not constantly drifting back to the grandson's.

He may be attractive, but he most definitely isn't the best assistant ever. The biggest problem is, he handles everything with callousness, as if none of this mattered to him – why is he even there if it's not to play the good grandson's part ? Right now he's handing gloves to the whole lot of them, looking all gloomy and dark. Brewster isn't paying any attention to him, and instead is all focused on his lecture.

The distraction works to some extent, seeing that save for a few students, no one seems to be paying the grandson any thought ; they listen to the master's voice, and barely look at the assistant, even when they grab the gloves that he hands them. Hermann impatiently waits for his turn but, since he's sitting at the end of the row, the assistant doesn't bother coming all the way to him, and it's Hermann's neighbor who transfers the surgical gloves to him.

It is the last class of the day, the last class of a day towards the end of October, and there is a dark, yellowish light contouring the furniture, and Hermann notices that his hands are shaking. It's never happened before, _not like that_ , and he blames it on anything, the cold he's caught, a lingering hangover from the other night, anything in order not to have to do anything about it. But at some point the shaking gets so bad he's scared he won't be able to complete the dissection. Which would be bad news, bad, bad news. On top of it his breath is loud and erratic, as if his lungs had diminished in size.

 _Steady your hands under the table_ , he thinks, clasping his fingers together, hoping for it to pass. It does. It does and he can resume his work.

Drowns himself back in the feeling, fingers moving fast and faster, because these are his hands frisking a human organ, and this is straight-up a historical moment. Until he's so calm he can't repress a smile.

Then he looks up only to see the grandson staring at him.

(So he keeps his gaze down for the rest of the class, heart pounding.)

As soon as the dissection is over, Hermann stands up, hoping he won't have to witness those weird interactions between Brewster and the offspring again, or to interact with either of them. But considering he was sitting at the end of a row, he has to wait for all his classmates to leave before he can pass. It was embarrassing enough to be caught smiling at a human liver by a total stranger, and then to spend the rest of the class avoiding the stranger's eyes _just in case_ ; he doesn't want to make an even bigger fool of himself by lingering around for too long.

As he goes up the row, jostling his classmates slightly so he can get out of the room, he tries to figure out the nature of that shortness of breath, those shaking hands from earlier. It can't- it could be the young man's gaze. Because he's positive about that now – that feeling, it's the same he had in the library when encountering the shadowy figure by the window. But why would Herr Brewster’s grandson stay out late just to hang around the library ?

Strange things happen here.

He's managed to cross the entire amphitheater without too much trouble – just before crossing the door frame, though, the shortness of breath comes back, the ground starts pitching under his feet, and his view blurs and darkens. _It’ll teach me,_ he thinks bitterly _, for not listening to the signs his body sends him._ Shit. Shit. Shit.

He's fairly certain that someone has noticed that he's fainting, at least one person out of the four or five students left in the classroom, but no one makes a move. He's still conscious for the moment, hasn't fallen down yet, as he gathers any strength he has left to make it through the door. He doesn't. He collapses and his body hits the floor in a very unromantic way, good old plain passing out that resonates very loud, just next to the empty hallways. Save for the students that remain in the amphitheater (and now stare at him dumbfounded and baffled), the Medical School is empty by now, because it's getting late and everyone has already gone back to their houses ; their class is among the last ones of the day. A typical Tuesday night.

Even though he can't move a muscle and feels like he's wrapped in suds, some of his senses are still somewhat working. His ears, for instance, bringing him muffled sounds, such as “someone help […] up” or “Jonathan, would […] water”. A strange thing Heidelberg is indeed, a Medical School with renowned professors whose only reaction to a student fainting is tap water.

(To Brewster's defense, it really _is_ late, and everyone's had a long day, with the mid-semester exams coming.)

A glass of water is no panacea, but it does its job ; Hermann's vision soon allows him to actually distinguish his surroundings. Right now it consists of the dark corridor of the C building in front of him (which is never illuminated so late in the evening), the floodlit amphitheater behind him, and the blurry face of a man giving him water with a perfectly blank face, at his side. Jonathan is his name, as it seems. Jonathan Brewster.

But truth be told, with his tilted head, he sees little more of Jonathan than his hands. One'd hardly call them graceful, because of how callous they are, covered in cuts and faded scars, with the skin of his phalanxes scratched and reddish. They seem strong and large, though, with long, bony fingers. There's also something comical in how small his fingernails are – so smitten and bitten that they form but a thin line on top of his fingertips – the only funny thing about the man's appearance.

Saying he wakes up would be very much of an overstatement, considering he wasn't really unconscious at any point, but after some time he goes back to being... more conscious, let's say.

Jonathan – or at least someone – has sat him on a bench with his back resting against the wall, just next to the door of the amphitheater. Herr Brewster is tidying his papers, and his offspring is wiping the blood off the tables with wide gestures and clenched teeth, and they both cast him side glances from time to time. Concerned glances from the older man, and dull, but with a slight sparkle of interest, from the younger one. He notices his hands have stopped shaking and his breathing is more even – but he still feels the far too tight constriction on his chest, which he can't wait to take off as soon as he gets home. Maybe binding tighter than usual wasn't a good idea, after all, even to fight the alien-ness he feels in his upper body sometimes. And maybe (the thought hits him like a truck) _he passed out because he was just plainly smothering to death._ It's pathetic. A great doctor he will be, really.

The tension in the room is thick and awkward, even he (who has barely come back to his senses) can sense it.. Which may explain why the professor has started to display signs of nervousness as soon as the students were gone, the same signs he showed the day before yesterday. Which may explain why the old man is soon to finish his paperwork, before exchanging a few hurried, impenetrable words with Jonathan (something about “Ochsenkopf”), or why he, on his way out, asks two or three questions to Hermann as to how he's feeling without seeming to pay any attention to the answers, before quickly exiting the amphitheater.

And then silence.

Back to silence, for a few minutes.

Silence, save for the sound of a towel being thrown aside and loud footsteps climbing the stairs that go from the master's desk, down below, to the exit of the auditorium. Seems like the assistant is done cleaning and wants to go home – if there is such a place, that is. Jonathan, Hermann notices, carries himself in this very stiff manner, as if he was always so tense he might be about to explode.

And Hermann is about to gather his stuff and leave, having accepted that this strange apparition of a grandson has no interest in having a conversation with him. Both of his feet are able to carry him (more than they were ten minutes ago, at least) so he has no reason not to go back to his flat and sleep the dizziness off. _Remove the bandages. Breathe._

“You were smiling,” says Jonathan out of the blue.

His voice is hoarse and low. Doesn't sound like he uses it much. And a stupid interrogation it is, of course, because it's just the two of them in the room, but Hermann wonders whether it's him he's talking to.

He answers nonetheless. “Earlier ?” (Both their voices echo loud in the empty auditorium.)

“Yes. I saw you. During the dissection. When you were on the left hepatic arthery, I saw you.”

A surgeon, then, Hermann thinks, or else how would someone that doesn't study there know what he was doing at the moment ? A surgeon, maybe, but in any case, and that is a very comforting thought, someone who has looked at him, and noticed.

“Yes, I was.” he tries, just to say something.

“It doesn't happen much,” Jonathan replies.

“No.”

Observe, lay back, follow the flow of the conversation. Hermann doesn't mean to be on the defensive, but he's also trying to come up with whatever excuse will make the other man stay, and that leaves him no room to participate quickly and cleverly to the conversation. Kind of counterproductive, one may say. Anyways, he starts walking in Jonathan’s direction, pretending it’s nothing.

It shows in his body language, though, of course it does ; he's all dry lips and twitching hands, thoughtlessly making his way towards Jonathan who finds himself six or seven meters away now. Not even dissections make him so nervous, and there he is, anxious just by being in the same room as someone who seems more interesting than half of his classmates put together even though it frustrates him that he _can't really point out why_ , and with his head still spinning a little, as oxygen begins to flow back in his body.

This is a very specific feeling he's living through right now, something a bit like being drunk while not having a drop of alcohol in his blood. Floating pieces of time, moments of dissonance, but holding _such_ heavy stakes, and as far removed from his everyday life as colors are from black and white.

“No, it's not,” he repeats, just for the sake of saying something – Jonathan hasn't made any attempt at feeding the conversation, but he's not leaving either. “I like it. Much. Dissecting.”

Jonathan squints his eyes oh-so-slightly and whispers. “You do look odd. The eyes, probably.”

Hermann lies against a desk, half-sitting on it. “Lots of people say that.”

“Would you find it ? The left hepatic arthery, on someone alive ?”

That's worth contemplating.

“Maybe. In a 6 months-time, sure.”

“I'm not sure I'll be around by then,” and Jonathan's voice is a few decibels softer. _Soft_ is not a word that easily fits the man's voice ; not as loud as it was before, sure. But _soft_ , no, hardly.

“You planning on heading home ?”

Funny thing, small talk. He'd never pictured himself having that conversation with that person two hours ago, yet here they are.

“Brooklyn isn't home. Friedrich-Schott-Straße either, but... Even when he was across the pond. Never has been.”

Him ?

“Him ? You mean Herr Brewster ?” Hermann doesn't see who else it could be, but he knows too little about the man to make any accurate guess.

Jonathan puts a lamp back in place, but doesn't answer. His eyes had lost some of their dullness throughout the conversation, but now he seems too lost in his thoughts to talk. Strange animal. Hermann guesses that now isn't the time to talk about the similarity of their noses – the kid Brewster doesn't sound very fond of his grandfather, doesn't seem to care much about how alike their cartilages look.

“What is your name ?” the man asks.

He answers (“Hermann Einstein”, the name still acts as a spell, after all those months, still reminds him that his life is his to lead), and he's about to ask back before remembering that he knows. Jonathan nods, still toying with the lamp, not looking at Hermann in the eyes, but attentive nonetheless. Then he straightens his suit – a dark gray one, the shirt stained with red splays ; he's gone through the entire class in a shirt, not bothering with a blouse, which didn't help him go unnoticed in a room full of lab-coats – and resumes his walk towards the door, without a word, just a small nod.

“I'm a- a surgeon. In practice. I'll be as soon as I get my degree – dissections, that's- I'll be doing that for the rest of my life. That's why I was smiling.”

But Jonathan's already walking out. And Hermann waits for something, anything, a sign that Jonathan has understood, or that he never wants to talk to him again- but he gets neither.

 

Often problems come hand in hand, and often they come from one another ; in this case it's the latter one. He's had to loosen a bit the bandages on his chest, because of some nasty contusion on his side that hurts when he sleeps (there's not much he can do about that bruise, just breathe deep and try to ignore the ache). But in any case his chest doesn't look nearly as flat as it did before. It’s  not much of an issue, considering that with a suit no one is going to mistake him for a woman, but still. It's exhausting to be this self-conscious at any time of the day. Which means that by and large he's not in the best of moods when he accepts Fritz's invitation for lunch a week later.

His classmate discerns it, there's no way he doesn't, but he either doesn't care or hopes to cheer him up with his shallow prattle. They're having a beer at a bar a few blocks away from school, with _sauerkraut_ for Fritz, who decidedly eats for the needs of his 180-pounds-or-so body, and herring with mushrooms for Hermann, who, while definitely not thin, still lives with a 5-ft-5 build which needs little energy to function. He's found himself to be less hungry those days, ever since cutting on the hormones – probably that not having to go through puberty all over again has reduced his caloric needs some.

The sight of corpses (apart from the one in the forest) has never disgusted him ; he's seen many pictures and has never flinched upon seeing raw flesh. Odd thing, though, he can't handle for a second the sight of red meat ; the blood makes him nauseous, the texture sends shivers down his spine. Dead flesh is only tolerable to him when on an operating table, that's why he only ever orders fish at restaurants. His parents have always teased him about it, as far as he can remember. They'd tell him he'd have to learn to stomach it before studying medicine, then chuckling, at the idea of a _g i r l_ becoming a surgeon.

He's actually found out that, when it comes to his old house, the worst part wasn't to leave ; the worst part is that he hasn't got a letter from his parents since he cut his hair and stole the suit. And he's not sure whether they simply didn't notice, or they just quit giving a damn about it a while ago, and both are terrible. Equally terrible is the fact that his mother is probably the only fascist bigoted person he'll ever miss. And equally terrible the knowledge that loving someone doesn't necessarily mean that living with them is the right thing to do – terrible having to acknowledge this, that love isn't always the best thing, isn't always the most powerful force, isn't always right or to be nurtured or taken care of.

Most times he avoids getting the thought of Eugen in the balance – how his parents couldn't see in Hermann a son, their son, when they'd been grieving another one in silence for years – because then he'd really go nuts. That's how lost in his thoughts he is ; so lost he doesn't hear Fritz calling his name until the third time he does so.

“Hermann ! Oh, there you are. Well, you sure are the most joyful dinner mate ever.”

And that's when he snaps.

“How do you do it ? That scatterbrained, unimpressed act, at any given second – haven't you ever run across worry ? Once in your entire life ?” Hermann barks.

Fritz's expression doesn't change of a wrinkle, though, as he digs through the _sauerkraut_ with a silver fork.

“A strange little fellow you are,” he finally says with a smile, “and not just because of the transvestite thing. Always on the edge. I, my friend, have chosen a life of peacefulness – only disturbed when classmates tell me about what is, or not, between their legs, of course.”

“Worry is the basis of care,” Hermann replies, bitterly, and he doesn't know when he's become so philosophical. Or when he started being so rude to one of his rare friends, when said friend has invited him for lunch – and offered to pay. And this is the kind of restaurant he works in, not eats in. Silver forks. No rats on the floor.

“I care.” Fritz is still equally calm.

“Do you ?”

“Yes, ungrateful chap, yes, I do. I've told you about it, the other night...”

_Wrong subject. No. No, let's not talk about this._

“...about that surgery thing. And let me tell you, I saw this guy I know yesterday, and asked him about you. He asked if you were on hormones, I had no idea, and truth be told I had no clue this was an actual thing. Like, you are physically _physically_ a man ? Anyways, he said it was a priority.”

Hermann's face falls in utter incredulity. “You _told_ someone I was what I am ?”

“Well, yes. Why wouldn't I ? It's like me, I'm not ashamed of people knowing I fuck my own kind.”

Totally different thing.

“This is dangerous for me, Fritz. What if people hear about it ?”

“Oh, come on. As if anyone would want to hurt that handsome bastard here – too cute for that. You're like the best of both worlds, you know ? Almost a woman- and a real man would never hurt a woman,” a witty remark, apparently, punctuated by a wink.

Hermann swallows it down, he has to. Doesn't mean it hurts any less.

“I mean,” and Fritz keeps on and on and Hermann's heart sinks lower and lower, “you get to chose to be a man- who wouldn't ? And a fag, at that. Is there anything better in the world ? You picked the right side, lemme tell you.”

Hermann still doesn't say anything. Still looks down and avoids Fritz's eyes, doing his best to tune in to the conversation. This, right there, is the best reaction he can ever expect people to have – them thinking he chose it, like Fritz, or doing their best to pretend as if nothing happened, like Magda. They are probably the most tolerant people he will ever come across. And he should be grateful. Really. He is, sort of, and very much so whenever he jostles a young blond man with a swastika on his arm in the streets and he gets so scared he stares at the cobblestone for the rest of the walk. He _is_ grateful, whenever he remembers that some people would kill him if they knew.

Maybe it's doom, or fate, or karma, but he always finds himself in the exact same situation. Of depending on people to get something that's a matter of life or death to him. Because that's cut and dried – without testosterone, he's running straight towards the chasm.

“Fritz, the serum,” he interrupts then, while the man had switched subject to some uncle he has in England, “I need it. Could you- do you know where I can find it ?”

Fritz sighs, leans back against his chair. There is little food left on his plate, some cabbage tucked on one side of the plate, as if mocking Hermann's almost untouched meal.

“You haven't been listening to me, have you ?”

“I have,” he lies, “really, it's just- you said you know people.”

“And my uncle in England ?”

“Fritz,” and his voice is weary and sick and tired, “please.”

And in some disturbingly similar scene to the one's he had with a young athletic 20-years-old-girl a few months ago, so similar it forces Hermann into a _deja-vu_ esque reality for the next couple of hours, Fritz scribbles a name and an address on a napkin and hands it to him. Not a doctor's, this time, but a man's. Who can get him the doctor's data. And suddenly Hermann feels calmer, ready to throw his arms around him, because God, when will a name and an address stop making him feel like he's the luckiest guy on Earth ?

Probably when Jonathan actually acknowledges his existence, whenever they cross path in the University ; but then again Jonathan doesn't acknowledge anything, walk straight on with his eyes set somewhere afar, like he always knows exactly what he's doing, always have those hard and fast goals that nothing will distract him from, like he's always on some kind of crusade, or secret mission, or... anything too important for him to look away. He doesn't talk to anyone in school. Never stays there for long – certainly not every day, and rarely more than three days a week.

Because the Jonathan, Hermann noticed, can only be found in three settings :

  1. a gloomy being roaming the corridors, his dark-grey suit slightly too big for his narrow frame (he's so _tall_ , especially next to Hermann's petite physique), his bony shoulders and elbow colliding with the rest of the world ;
  2. in Brewster's class, dripping murderous impulses by every pore, a flickering predatory gleam in his eyes – he would definitely be creeping every student out if they were actually paying him attention, but because none of them is as observant as Hermann is, (with those big eyes that Jonathan complimented) somehow no one but him has exchanged more than two words with Brewster Jr. A tacit agreement of _entente cordiale_ that does wonder to each party's mental health, truth be told.
  3. in the library, at night. But this specific part still has yet to be scientifically proved.



Hermann ought to feel at least slightly ashamed of himself, of his growing obsession with the guy ; it's rather unlike him, to develop so strong an interest in something else than surgery or masculinity. What he repeats, to reassure himself, is that he just likes talking with fellow surgeons (and even drop-out ones). Or maybe it just simply _is_ , and Jonathan is the most exciting and captivating and promising person in this entire city, from the opinion of a confused young man who only saw him twice. A piece of the thrilling existence he's dreamed would come in pair with a life in Heidelberg.

 

Even though he's most impatient to start the treatment again – _even though he's dying to finally meet someone like him_ – he has to wait until he's through the mid-semester exams, which go all the way to early December. The awful lot of of things that's been on his mind lately don't stop him from succeeding, with respectably high grades, and a rather wide margin. It's reassuring. Keeps him grounded. Fritz passes too, and the two or three other boys Hermann vaguely cares about. He smiles, congratulates everyone. He knows – have always known, after twenty years of facing only disinterest or disgust – that he's not good at caring, no matter what he told Fritz. And he'd like to work on that.

 

The moment he gets out of Fritz's friend's house, he heads straight to the restaurant, gathering all his thoughts so he can be the tiniest bit focused on his upcoming shift.

Fritz's friend's name is Wilhelm, and he is a good 40 years old, and one of those people you can't help but despise as soon as you meet them. But then again, Hermann tells himself, Fritz's acquaintances are so numerous that no wonder some of them are... surprising.

It took a lot of willpower to get through the hour and a half they spent together ; a lot of emotional strength to not say anything about the military or about the war, when the old man started glorifying them in the middle of the conversation ; and a lot of pacifism (or lack of physical strength) to not punch the lights out of him with what he said about the Jews.

The man met Fritz in a bar once, and they saw each other once or twice after that, or so he says. It explains a lot – his classmate may not be very regarding as to who he hangs out with, but still, even he wouldn't want to stick around with such a jerk. Hermann's guess, though, is that Fritz found it fashionable to have a _transvestite_ as a friend ; based on his cheerful reaction to Hermann's apprehension, how he keeps talking about this _best of both worlds_ thing, it sounds like a reasonable guess.

Needless to say, Hermann stopped trying to find a positive thing about that Wilhelm guy after ten minutes of conversation, and let his hate run free inside his head instead. So he might be somewhat biased. But then Wilhelm started a rant about transvestites who didn't want to change their bodies, that he'd met one of those once, some woman who didn't hate her body, and how that was nonsense and absurd and disgusting, and Hermann was reassured ; he could hate the man all he wanted.  
He's got that ugly tendency, to sort out things and people, to classify them, and he doesn't like it when something want to change category. Because he's a doctor before anything else, and medicine calls for well-divided opinions, calls for facts and figures (a discipline that didn't soften his already Manichean temper.) And hate feels good when it's the only kind of violence you can allow yourself to experiment on.

 

Fritz calls it being too demanding, pessimistic, the next time they see each other – but when doesn't he, with this chirpy nature of his ? “He's an ass, but well, he ain't so wrong, is he ?”, waves it off as they both walk quickly to their next class, a theoretical lecture none of them take much pleasure in attending.

Fritz ruffles his hair, patting Hermann on the back, quickly changing the subject to _when will we hit the bar again, Lothar's been asking for you_ , this kind of things. They didn't bring up the _surgery_ topic (he ought to learn the specific, accurate term for it, at least) after last night, and it seems as far from Fritz's mind as it can get. What _does_ seem on his mind, though, is that a friend of his that lives in Berlin has been visiting ; and he’s told so many wonderful tales, as it seems, that Fritz says he’s on the verge of letting everything down and settling down in Berlin. _You don’t understand, Hermann, it’s people like us’ paradise there._ He’s not wrong.

Two students say hello to them in the corridor – two nice guys that Hermann has talked to before, one called Hermann (at least that makes it easy to remember) and the other Friedrich, or Frantz, or something along those lines. He remembers his rant about caring, once again, smiles, decides to at least pretend that his entire energy is not dedicated to taking life-changing decisions about his body ; he sees them talking, prepares to enter the conversation, then notices one of them is handing leaflets with young men in uniforms doing a salute, and the other is laughing at his jokes, and then he's not smiling anymore. NSDAP. He knows those guys. 3% of the votes it was that they got, at the most recent local election in the Länder, if he remembers well, and he'd like to spit those numbers at their faces. He's even fairly positive their influence is decreasing, that their results were higher in 1924 or 1926 than they are now, the noise growing dimmer over the years – here's to hoping it stays that way. But those days the old Nationalist parties have been growing more and more silent in comparison with this rising star, and that Hitler guy stands on top of an ideology far older than him, that he and his clique are steadily starting to tower, absorbing all the smaller groups.

He doesn't ball up his fists, doesn't _fight like a man_ , doesn't turn them into punching bags, doesn't beat them black and blue. Instead he tugs at Fritz's sleeve and they both walk away as quiet as possible. Might as well enjoy this possibility – of walking away – while they still can.

His classmate is making the small talk to distract the two of us from the incident, talking about his family, some deal with his younger brother getting married, as Hermann does his best to focus.

And it's funny, really, how deceiving first impressions can be. Because sure, Fritz's not exactly the most invested guy in his studies, despite his grades and the time he occasionally spends at the library (safe to say he has other topics on his mind, most of the time), and not exactly the poorest guy ever either, living in a middle-class district not far from the University ; but still he's nothing the daddy's boy brat Hermann first thought he was. And he's still arrogant and loud, but it shows in the small details, how he mentioned that all his relatives expect him to marry a girl he's known since he was a child, and he knows that it's what he'll end up doing, how once in a while he skips meals so he can pay for nice suits and good beer, how he drops those facts sometimes, those things that sound like nothing but pile up to build a whole new man to Hermann's eyes.

Somehow, it's even him who Hermann trusts to hold him back if he's ever about to do something _real_ stupid – like throwing balled-up fists at the blond men's jaws, like kicking the man Wilhelm in the balls he takes so much pride in having, like letting the locked-up violence in him get out for good. Hermann's hope is that, by talking on a regular basis to someone who _understands_ (to some extent), to someone who thinks as ill of all those people (or almost) as him, by speaking, by talking, by letting it out before it gets too much to handle, by _caring_ about Fritz, the grenade inside his binded chest won't explode too soon – or make too much damage.

 

All that matters is that he has the doctor's address now.

And while he waits clients richer than he will ever be during his shift, while he runs all over the restaurant, trying not to think of how incredibly tasty the food looks, he does his best to persuade himself this is the last time he'll have to go through all this.

 

The doctor gives him his prescription.

The doctor puts a needle in his arm.

In exactly six years, this practice would get them both in a concentration camp ; right now, they're only risking prison for life. If someone asked, Hermann would laugh it off and pretend that he's not scared, that he never has been.


	6. Fight a car windshield (hide in your echo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We sat in the kitchen, stared into twin coffee cup reflections.
> 
> The chairs all too broken to sit in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's starting to get real between those two

_I should've added a fourth at the list of places where you can meet a wild Jonathan Brewster,_ he thinks as Jonathan's hand clasps against his mouth and pushes him against a brick wall, _“4. in a back-alley at night with blood on his waistcoat.”_

But that was rather unpredictable, and certainly unprecedented, so he doesn't really blame himself for this.

“Quiet,” Jonathan hisses, “quiet, listen to me.”

Hermann listens.

“Can't go to a doctor. I need bandages. I know you have some. Give them to me.”

He's still listening, but not really in any position to act. It is kind of unsettling, when you exit the school library at night, and head home, and after only walking two blocks or so you run into the man you've been thinking about a lot the past few days. And the man sounds preyed, and cornered, and a large crimson stains on his chest, just below the ribcage. Not many people are ready for this situation.

“I- I'll help you, sure. My flat is not too far from here. If you could let me move-”

Jonathan backs up. His grip wasn't that violent to begin with. Looks like he was holding back his strength (which means he knows _how_ to do so, which is a good thing). But now he steps back, with way more deftness in his movesthan the last time Hermann saw him.

“Maybe if you told me exactly what happened-”

“That thing. About the left hepathic arthery. That you said. Was it true ?”

“I guess so.” Once again, Hermann has no idea where they are going with this conversation.

“I don't trust Brewster's dogs. You are convenient. Got into a fight – can't let him find out about this. Get me those bandages.”

Jonathan's german isn't nearly as good as his grandfather's – sprinkled with grammar mistakes, misplaced die's and der's, his tongue failing on some hard r's. That's understandable – he can't have been around for _that_ long, as compared to Brewster Sr.'s nine years stay in Germany.

Hermann hesitates. How could he not ? And accepts. How could he not ? It all feels so surreal and absurd, it makes no sense at all – he tries to picture Jonathan in a fistfight, blades against skin, knives drawn as quickly as names, Jonathan hurt, blood, lesions, Jonathan waiting by the library because he knows that some small student stays late, because he's seen him a couple of times, and then jumping at him, asking for help ( _begging_ , something that sound so painful to him that it may open the scar on his lip all over again), everything just not to come home with an open wound.

They walk in silence. Hermann still has no idea of what's happening, but he's following the flow, as if in a day-(or rather, dusk)-dream. Jonathan moves slower than he used to, teeth clenched but not whining, and they head towards the suburbs, where Hermann lives, away from the center of the city, as the car noises get rarer and rarer, as the top hats get replaced by working-class caps. He checks in for Jonathan from time to time, because _he's a doctor, before anything else_ , and his attentive glances have nothing to do with the way the moonlight makes the man's face seem paler and brighter at once, of course.

When they get to the building where he lives, he takes out his key, and tells Jonathan to wait for him downstairs. A pointless attempt, one may say ; as if he had heard nothing, Brewster Jr. follows him towards the stairs, not displaying any sign that he has understood.

Hermann is not a violent man – that's what he likes telling himself, even though one can't go through years of hate and fists and screams without this violence getting in somehow. He's not a _violent_ man, but he _is_ determined, and part of this character trait means he enjoys having control over his life. And being a trainwreck is no excuse to challenge that, to make him derogate to this rule.

“You're not going up,” he asserts, firm on his feet. “I'm not taking a wounded man up here when I have no clue what happened.”

Because the pride of standing up for himself – understand : of manning up – overcomes the want to be in Jonathan's good books. Many of the things he expected to find on the man's _face_ – because his eyes alone are always too dark to read properly – are there : anger, unrest, displeasure, that general idea. And something that would look like fear on anyone else's face. His mouth twitches, opens, closes.

“Things are happening in this town, now. In Ochsenkopf. With me. With Brewster. You wouldn't... I am.. don't.”

Hermann is an observer, and that's even one of the things he does best – see details, analyze, act upon those details, whenever it's his safety or interests who are at stake. And Jonathan's fingers are scratching restlessly against one another, fingernails digging into his palms, fists clenching and untightening, as if they were a pair of breathing lungs ; he doesn't know what's going to happen, but right now Jonathan seems nothing as stable as he did the other night in the amphitheater. Which is to say Hermann is going to swallow his pride and let himself be ordered around _this time_ , and eventually ask for details later, once Jonathan's knuckles have stopped shaking.

And maybe he's the tiniest bit afraid, too – he knows violence first hand, has never turned his hands into fists, but he knows how they feel thrown full speed to his stomach ; violence, he has felt it blooming inside of himself ever since he was five. He knows violence, and he's terrified of what it might mean in others, of what it might mean in him.

Lay back. Observe.

They walk upstairs silently ; he remembers in passing the scandal his landlord threw in his last apartment (when the old man was looking for an excuse to throw him out and started a rumor about him being a prostitute), and he giggles, because now, this very moment, is the first time he ever brings a man to his apartment. And Jonathan Brewster is nothing the kind of man his former landlord had in mind, surely.

As they enter the flat, and Hermann shuffles through his possessions, Jonathan takes off his vest, in utter silence ; Hermann waits for the other man to, at some point, break the uncomfortable silence that fills the room. Long shot. Jonathan is leaning against the door, his vest crumpled on the floor – he wasn't wearing any coat, which is odd, as if he felt nothing of the chilly wind outside. And _Hermann is a doctor, before he's anything else,_ so he studies Jonathan's upper body with a surgeon's eyes, analyzing the frame, the relieves, scanning the stain on his waistcoat. On the gray cloth, it forms a dark grey circle, a shade darker than the fabric, and it could be anything, coffee, whiskey ; but underneath he wears a white shirt, and there, the blot is distinctly crimson.

(And he also notes that Jonathan's physique has this weird structure where he's only muscular in the arms, which contrasts with his skinny chest and shoulders, but it's not disproportionate. Only unusal. Like the rest of him. _A doctor's eye._ _)_

Once he's got everything ready, he walks closer to the other man, preparing his tools. “Gunshot ? Knife ?” The tone is almost conversational.

Jonathan seems reluctant to answer, by and large as tense as he always is, but he seems to relax some once he sees the bandages. “Knife.”

“Streets are not sure those days.”

“Wasn't in the streets.”

Seems like a sore point. Still, he insists – Jonathan needs him, can't run away now, and he's going to take advantage of this opportunity.

“Something happened at the University ?”

“Kind of.”

He's taken off his waistcoat too, opened his shirt of a few buttons, just to reveal the wound. At first glance Hermann thought it was a single wound, but it is really composed of two deep cuts and two more shallow ones which surround it ; as a whole it covers more than half a foot of flesh. Red and butchered. The cuts are not long, but they bear the mark of a violent blow, one that aimed to hurt and hurt deeply. His eyes rise to meet Jonathan's, who stays quiet, and he can't help but ask himself, _who the Hell in the University could do that ?_

He keeps on with his intent at a conversation. “What kind of knife was it ?”

“Dual blade Hammer pocket knife, 5 inches” Jonathan answers without thinking, but then he freezes for a second, and he seems to regret a bit his answer, although Hermann can't figure out what kind of sensitive information it could be. Sure, he didn't expect so specific an answer – just the type of blade it was, to figure out the potential damage.

Jonathan's lips don't as much as twitch when he starts disinfecting the wound, when blood starts to slowly color the cotton. The deepest cuts may even need some stitches, actually, in a medecine student's humble opinion, but there's no way he can convince the proud Brewster to do that, so he swallows it and remains silent.

It is almost unnoticeable, but Jonathan's body is slightly more relaxed, shoulders just a bit lower. _How desperate do you have to be to trust someone you've only ever seen once with nursing a highly suspect knife wound at_ _11 P.M_ _?_ But one thing he learned about the guy is that he never gives answers he doesn't explicitly have to.

“You'll have to keep cleaning up the wound,” he advises, “it might get infected in up to two weeks.” Moments later, he adds, “you are most strong, Jonathan, I dare say.”

“I could,” he mumbles, ignoring the rest of the sentence.

Hermann's hands keep studying the the cut for a few seconds, until he freezes, because something has changed, but he can't put his finger on it – his first observation is that Jonathan's voice sounds a bit different than it did five seconds ago, and, upon second thought, that it's because he's _switched to English_. Hermann's about to answer in German, just to make a point, but then he gathers his knowledge and decides to try it out ; a unique opportunity it is. And when he answers, his Shakespeare-tongued words are hesitant, but he manages.

“You know a lot of things about surgery.” He's done cleaning the wound – the best he can, in so unsanitary an environment – and as he gathers the bandages, getting ready to apply them, Jonathan takes his entire shirt off, quickly followed by his undershirt. Hermann didn't think it possible, but the tall man's chest is even paler than his face, veins a purplish blue on his forearms. Plus, it's a battleground, this chest, honest ; a wasteland of scars, a view he had a foretaste of on Jonathan's hands. The only difference is that the cuts are deeper, the scars longer, the bruises nastier. This time, he doesn't gaze up to Jonathan's eyes, because he's a bit afraid of what he might find there.

But wondering about the whereabouts of his patients' bodies is not his job – healing is. So that's what he does, hands careful not to touch the most scabbed zones of Jonathan's torso, as he applies the bandages slowly on his chest, down to the beginning of the hips.

“I wanted to be a surgeon once,” the answer finally arrives, and this is the single most personal thing he's ever heard about the man. He can picture it, alright, Jonathan in some Medical School in the USA, in first year, dissecting, studying, and then- something happens. What, that's what he doesn't know, and probably never will.

“You surely have changed your career plans, Jonathan,” Hermann comments, almost done with his work. It went surprisingly well, considering how long it's been since he last wrapped bandages around someone else's chest. He had to be careful, while working, not to tighten the bandages too much, accostumed as he is to bind himself flat every morning. Was he to be honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he's utterly jealous, of how most men never have to smother themselves to death just to get called by the right pronoun. Maybe his hands have lingered just a bit too long on Jonathan's upper chest, contemplating the man's body, and the bandages on his _own_ chest have never felt this tight. At some point he even gets scared he's going to pass out again.

Why couldn't he-

Why didn't he-

Brewster Jr. must be more receptive than he looks, because he's definitely caught on those signs, Hermann's distress, the anxiety dwelling in his ribcage. He takes the bandages from the student's hands, cuts the extremity, and looks at himself in the wall-mirror, at his bandaged chest ; what he sees seems to satisfy him. Almost as soon as it's over, he puts his undershirt back on, then the suspenders, then his shirt, and Hermann fears he's going to leave without a word like last time, but there's nothing he can do right now, except tighten his grip on his shirt and hope he's not going to die, because it sure feels like he is.

Why couldn't he why couldn't he why couldn't he-

Born-

In _any_ other setting, he'd pour himself some drinks of schnapps, but this is no ordinary setting, and all he wants to do is down an entire bottle right now. Because if he can't breathe, can't fill his chest with air, might as well fill it with something else that will make him feel alive. His hands shake much, and quickly, and haphazardly, and he can't move. He manages to lean on the dinner table so he can stay up. Exactly like last time, in the amphitheater – only this time he won't be fooled and think it's just an extreme reaction of his to Jonathan's presence, this time he knows it's just because he-

why didn't he-

body like _them_ like _him_ like _them them him them-_

“Surely you'll stay for a drink or two,” he hears himself say, and the voice sounds so calm and poised that it can't possibly be coming from his shaking body.

“That's prohibited where I come from.” Jonathan answers. A night of first times it is, definitely : first personal information displayed, and now, first fetus of a smile at the edge of Jonathan's lips, as if the sole idea of abiding the laws sounded laughable. Wonderful, what a healed wound does to a man.

“The- the- the- schnapps is in- the-the-the drawer,” he staggers. There it is, a voice already more fitting to his current condition. He is slowly beginning to calm down, most of all because he doesn't want Jonathan to run away from this crazy shaking guy who can't even speak proper English. As soon as he has this thought, he lets out a small laugh - God, the sole idea of Jonathan running away from _craziness_ is ridiculous.

Soon a glass of schnapps is handed to him, and once he's thanked Jonathan for... well, being so kind as to offering him _his own alcohol_ , Hermann can finally feel the liquid making its way through his organism, and he can come back to life. Strange how it turned out to be much quicker and more effective than the glass of water from last time – this is the second time Jonathan sees him like that already, and they'd better not let it turn into a habit.

They stay silent for a few minutes, Hermann looking down, evening his breath, toying with his glass, Jonathan having already drunk two of them. The man handles his liquor, he notes. His expression isn't blank anymore – instead, he seems extremely focused on something, something he can't point out, as it seems, because he frowns more and more with each passing second. The liquor helps, and Hermann doesn't hesitate in interrupting the man's train of thought.

“What do you do, in Germany, then ?”

“I walk around. Help him when he needs to.”

“But you two don't get along well, I've noticed ?”

“That's an understatement. I don't... have much sympathy for.. any Brewster.”

A thought flashes in Hermann's brain, and he shouldn't say it out loud, but his speech filter is growing dimmer and dimmer with each glass – he's drunk three of those already. “He didn't do it to you, did he ? Those wounds ?”

It's not as much a smile as a grimace on Jonathan's mouth when he answers. “He ? Like hell he could. He only knows how to hurt people on _accident.”_

“What does this mean ?”

“Why do you care ?”

That's a good question .Why does he care ? It's getting late, he has classes tomorrow, and there he is chatting up with this shady guy who puts him at risk by bringing his knife wounds in here, when he should be sound asleep, getting ready for tomorrow.

Why does he care ?

Well, he's told himself before, that he'd like to care more. This lost soul seems like a good place to start. Or, does he really need a reason ?

“It's just small talk, Jonathan.”

“I hate it.”

“Figured.”

Jonathan's shadow of a smile has faded, and he stands up to leave, like he's forgotten what made him stay in the first place.

“You're interesting, as compared to them,” Hermann rushes, trying out flattery, “you're not like... most students. Not like us.”

“Maybe because I'm not one of you.”

“Yes, I've noticed. Not many of us show up with four knife wounds every day. Why did he stab you four times ? What happened ?”

Hermann can feel that he's irritating Jonathan but he physically can't _stop_ , and he blames the alcohol for that, along with this terrible feeling that he can never say the right thing to get to him. Like there's some kind of a gap between them, wider than the ocean between their home countries.

“I'll pay you back for this,” Jonathan says, something between an acknowledgement and a threat. “For the bandages.” he explicits, and it sounds like the closest to a _goodnight_ or a _thanks_ he can come up with.

“You don't have to. My pleasure,” Hermann replies.

Jonathan hisses back like he just slapped him across the mouth. “Don't you _dare_ pity me.”

“It is-”

He reaches angrily for his pocket, takes out his wallet and stomps a hundred marks on the bed table.

“Here. All settled.”

“Listen, I-”

Hermann stands up too quickly in a desperate attempt to stop the man, too quickly, _too damn quickly_ and the binding knows how to make sure it is not forgotten. He gasps for breath, floating images of Jonathan's flat chest, of Fritz's words. He can't breathe. It's back, the choking.

Jonathan is not moving, not attempting to leave anymore, and he's not sure it's a good thing - he doesn't want Jonathan to _pity_ him, of all things, to stay because he thinks that little weak student might plain _die_ in front of him. As if Jonathan was the kind of man who feared death.

Another glass of schnapps down his throat, and he can stand straight – or almost.

“I'll take your hundred marks. You just- change the bandages, often.”

“Alright.” And Jonathan has switched back to German. As if this cousin once removed of intimacy between them had instantly vanished.

“Can I just have a last question ? And I swear you can go back to Brewster's, or in some dirty back-alley, or wherever it is you're heading.” Wrong line. Wrong line. But still, Jonathan doesn't leave. So he asks.

“What are you doing around the library ?”

Because he's positive now that it is him he saw some nights, the same silhouette, the same aura, and it is all so unscientific, to think that he could recognize him from so far away, with few and far between apparitions, but he _knows_ , just like he knows he's a man and a surgeon and alive, that this shadow was Jonathan's.

And it is 1 A.M, five schnapps glasses down, and finally, finally, Jonathan's face breaks into a grin. “I was here for the schnapps, just like you. Or just to frighten people. Sounds like a reasonable alibi, doesn't it ?”

And Hermann has nothing to answer to that.

  


It occurs to Hermann a couple of minutes later, how odd this answer on the brand of knife was – Jonathan must have an expert's eye on knives, or else how could Jonathan just _know_ the knife's brand right off the bat ?

  


It's the same night, an hour later, and he hasn't stopped drinking. He calls Fritz once, twice, three times, knowing full well he's only able to do so because of the schnapps in his veins – else he'd be shaking against the wall, gasping for breath. This is a rule he's adopted, and a hard-and-fast one, born from experience – that he's usually his most awake after drinking, and that he trusts himself with whatever decision he may then make.

His hand is under his shirt, toying with the fabric wrapped around his breasts, as he waits for his classmate to answer. One ring, two rings.

The man answers at fourth try, half-awake, with a very sleepy version of “who is it ?”. Hermann wasn't afraid he'd be too sound asleep to hear the ring, but he did apprehend him being too busy with- other things. It's a Friday night, after all.

“It's Hermann. Fritz, I need the surgery.”

And next second he can swear that the man's fully awake on the other hand of the line.

  


Money, he got (the hundred marks Jonathan gave him do help a little) ; free time, not so much ; courage, much less. How many men have been under those hands, by a surgeon's knife, cut open and sewed over, like he will soon be ? The thought of surgery on himself, it reminds him of his discomfort towards red meat – totally irrational and running very deep under his skin. But he's become good at convincing himself, has tried all the reasons of why he'll regret it if he doesn't take this opportunity, of why he has to-

 _no more shortness of breath, bruises, deformed ribs_ // but he could have dealt with them for much longer ;

 _think of a beautifully, masculine-shaped chest in the mirror, like the one Jonathan has_ // and with almost as much scars as him, after such an operation ;

 _in bed, at night, feel other people's bodies against your flat chest_ // and, well, that one can't easily be countered.

Fritz got in touch with the _people he knows,_ scheduled him for two months later – meaning in February –, gave him his benediction, and sent him off. Same surgeon who operated on Wilhelm ? Hermann asked sarcastically. Where else was I supposed to find one ? his classmate snaps back, and Fritz rarely sounds annoyed, but he did then.

It's 1927, and a young transvestite (they'd call him, years, _years_ later, a trans man) has to know an ultimatum when he sees one – not from Fritz's part, but from the universe's. Some chances you have to take so you can move on, some bridges you have to cross before burning them.

So he says yes, like marrying the body he's fading away into, the flesh he will soon let a doctor mold and deform – his wedding vows, promising himself this is the last time he turns himself to clay.

  


It is a safe bet to say he's not going to spend Christmas with his family this year (still no mail for him, the landlord is positive, neither from Herr and Frau Einstein, Bayern, nor from Fraülein Karla von Übitsch, Freiburg im Breisgau, not a letter, not a word).

He lets the high buildings in town light up on their own, lets the frost bite the streets and the pedestrians, lets Fritz go back home ( _wish me luck_ , he says, _because just for the sake of apparences, I'm going to be kissing a girl for the next two weeks_ ), lets the doctor give him his last testosterone shot of the year on December 19, 1927 – and it's as close to a Christmas present as he will get this year, surely.

Excluding the flu he catches two days before Christmas Eve and which keeps him in bed during the holidays, with a fancy whiskey bottle and a burning heater in a corner of the room ; that flu makes for a terrific present, and he's incredibly grateful, right. (That's ironic. He isn't.). He's known better times, he thinks, lying in bed, eyes set on the frozen window. Has he ? Rewind 365 days and he was in the home of his youth, less lonely but less himself, and his relatives' hands found wide hips and an unbound chest when they hugged him on New Year's Eve, 1927. Less lonely, but less himself. Less lonely, but. Less lonely.

The one person he'd like to see, at this very moment, (it always comes down to this, in the end) is Jonathan (who he already called Johnny twice in his head, while intoxicated), Jonathan, the one spare electron, the one chaotic, heater-skelter, desultory element in his life, and the one thing he has _absolutely_ no control over, which is both terrifying and reliving.

Jonathan, who still ignores his existence, _of course_ , Jonathan, how could he have the least interest in him ? This kind of self-depreciating thoughts are nothing usual to him – he's learned, over the years, that if he doubts himself everything is over, and while he's careful never to overestimate himself, he's never fallen in the simplicity of self-hate.

His mind feels numb, his hands are cold. He rubs them against one another, grazes the beginning of a stubble that's draped across his chin. Here's to hoping that the testosterone will also bless him with a few inches more of height – a wild dream that he'll get passed 5 ft 5.

 _Seasonal depression_ , they'll call it in a few years' time. _Dysphoria_ , also. Or _gender identity disorder_ . But this is 1927 and he has no words, and he's never been very good with them either way, English or German, so _I'll figure it out eventually_ will have to do.

  


On December 31, 1927, he decides it's time to get out of bed – get ouf of bed for good, out of his apartment, not just to cook himself something or browse through his files and the mountain of work he has to do. Dressing up takes a lot of time, just like binding, just like combing his hair after a hot bath that does him a lot of good. It's pouring outside and the entire city is drenched and soaking, streetlights sprawling like wisps of smoke. No snowfall this year.

He's been looking more at himself in the mirror recently, mostly to study the pros and cons of what he's about to do to his body. Picture the curves on his upper body, imagine them gone, imagine them not there. The serum has changed his frame some (which seems highly impossible, after only one month or so ; but well, even though the term _placebo effect_ won't appear until 1955, its effects can still apply). But today it is his face that he wants to look at – stare at himself like a stranger until he can convince himself of his reality. “My, how I've changed,” he says, voice barely a whisper, but it's still unredeemedly true.

Roaming the streets feels like the rightest thing to do, and he's been interested in _right_ a lot recently. He'd like to pretend that the sights of happy families make him nostalgic and gloomy and melancholic, but really, it doesn't. He's never wanted a normal life, never been striving for warm chimneys and children's eyes. He'll never be a normal man, never live in plain sight, never become a respected father. If someone asked him, he'd try his best to pretend that the thought makes him sad.

“Caring and sharing”, says a sign, on top of a group of people gathering food for hobos. The country's economics has been on the rise for the past few months, mostly because of Stresemann's reform, but it doesn't mean the unemployment rate is not alarmingly high, or that the people can't see that it's the calm before the storm.

He enters the nearest pharmacy (a miracle that it's open – but some people would do _anything_ to work, even for one day, and bosses are taking advantage of that), half to get something for his cold, half because it's _freezing_ out there, with the rainy air getting under his bones. Caring. He walks among the shelves, (“can I help you, Mister ?”), looking for something that would take the illness out.

Hey, they even have five different kind of gauze, all in different-colored packages ! What a time to be alive.

… Gauze, though. The foetus of an idea pops in his head.

He ends up buying two packs, along with some of Bayer's aspirin and Prontosil for himself (his mother would have called it all nonsense and would have applied a sliced onion on his throat). He wishes he could have bought some heroin, but sadly, it's forbidden to the sale in pharmacies since 1910. A pity.

When he exits the store, it's raining even harder than before, and he hurries inside one of the buses that roam the city. They're crowded (only natural ; he's not the only one to care about remaining dry) and he spends half an hour stuck against other people's bodies, trying to find enough space to breathe and to keep his bag safe.

It could prove of some use to know _where exactly he has to go_ , so in this timespan he does his best to gather whatever informations he may have. He's figured that Jonathan lives in the same house as his grandfather's (that is, when he's not getting his chest cut open by foreign knives at night), and it's a safe guess to think that Brewster doesn't live far away from the University – and, with the impressive quantity of dough he earns, a safe bet too to picture him in a middle-class neighborhood. There was this name who came back once or twice, he remembers – Och-something, sounding as if it was some place both Brewsters knew – could be where they live. Ochsen.. Ochsen... and a Friedrich-Straße, or something along those lines. Fritz would know, surely, because he spends much more time in _those_ districts than Hermann does, but Fritz is not here.

And maybe it's the fact he's cornered, because he's just realized no one can help him, maybe it's the smothering atmosphere of the bus or the Christmas spirit or the-Lord-our-father coming down from the High Heavens to help him but – suddenly he remembers. _Ochsenkopf._ Back in his old town, when he was applying for Heidelberg, he'd talked about it with Karla once – she said that most of the teachers lived there, almost like a small community built-up, that her mother had a nice house there that she went to visit on holidays. _Ochsenkopf._ Surely it's not so big, and there won't be more than four or five Friedrich- _etwas_ -Straße in the district. At least so he hopes.

It takes him a good hour to locate it, once he's reached the district and exited the bus – an hour of walking back and forth in the neighborhood, asking bartenders, squinting his eyes to sort out the names of the streets through the heavy rain, and hiding underneath the stores' awnings when he starts shivering too much, waiting for the pounding to quiet down. (It doesn't). But he finds it, Friedrich-Sabt-Straße, a physician, if he remembers well – surely, it would sound quite neat, “Hermann-Einstein-Straße”, and the thought is enough to relieve the tension inside of him a little. 5, 6, 7... number 8 is a red and white house which looks like the kind of house a worldwide famous Heidelberg professor would buy. He's almost too apprehensive to cross the porch – after all, it's 3 P.M on December 31, which is to say Brewster's at home, if anywhere ; and it's even more likely for the older one than it is for the younger.

Yet he steps forward, one, two small steps, careful he'd shatter this baroque scenery (he, a couple of hours before New Year's Eve, leaving bandages by a nearly stranger's front door, for... God's sake, maybe, drenched to the bone, without a single proof that this is his house, that the bartender he asked for directions earlier knew what he was talking about) was he to walk too hurriedly. He crosses the small garden that leads to the house and, still careful, drops the bag (save for the Prontosil and the aspirin, which he keeps to himself, thank you very much) on the windowsill. It is white, a clean, neat shade of white, so immaculate that it wouldn't even look real, were it not for the wet leaves that the storm has left there, muddy and dirty, grounding it into reality.

“What are you doing here ?”

The turning around is immediate – it's Jonathan. Of course it is. He could lie to himself, pretend that it's not what he'd been hoping for, and he does. At least for a few seconds. But really, that's what he'd been hoping for. Which doesn't mean he knows how to react to this situation.

“I... um. I was just checking if, if everything was okay.”

“No you weren't,” says Jonathan, and the threat is blooming in his throat, “ _what_ are you doing here ?”

Hermann's heart is in his mouth. He didn't expect this.

“You're here on his behalf, aren't you ? Spying on me ?”

It is either suicidal or a damn great idea, but he picks the paper bag up from the windowsill and hands it to the heated man, closing the distance between them. “Happy New Year, Jonathan.”

There's a thick silence, quickly followed by the taller man's cough, in a good imitation of _uncomfortable_ (because there's no way so social an emotion can be applied to him).

“Come on, follow me,” he says. And he walks away with steps so big Hermann has to half-jog to follow. Each of Jonathan's strides are worth almost two of his, even free of the weight of the three set of bandages, which now are in the young Brewster's hands.

They walk along the street, passing by several elderly people walking on the opposite sidewalk, eying them with disapproving eyes. A good reputation Jonathan has. Hermann would want to ask where it is they're going, but as often with Jonathan, answers only come with his say so.

“New Year's Eve,” Jonathan whispers, almost more to himself than to anyone else. “They're all here. Pathetic. No one has seen even an eyelash of any of them around the old Brewster since the acid incident. I don't mind, but- it's not even about right or wrong.”

What is there to answer to that, when he has no idea what the taller man is talking about ? He nods. He wants to tune into the rambling, but all he hears is the silenced _thump_ of both of their feet against the wet sidewalk.

Seeing that Jonathan isn't dealing with the subject in depth, Hermann shares back some memories of his own, that seem relevant. “Last New Year I was with my family. They've never known who I really was – I left long before that.”

Jonathan seems the slightest bit interested and – for once – ask him something.

“Leave... wish I could do that. They've never known what ?”

(...and with that they've switched back to English.)

“I'm... queer,” he finally settles on this term, after two stressful seconds of thought. Good thing he learned the word some time ago – it's deliciously encompassing and vague, while all the same meaning exactly what it means. Jonathan says nothing. There's no way to know what he's understood. So once again, it's Hermann who keeps on with questions on his own, a pile of questions he's been dying to ask. “So you wish you could leave ? Leave what, exactly ?”

“Leave my family – my – relatives. Brewster said he'd lock me in the nuthouse, were I to ever disappear – surely he wouldn't be able to locate me if I really decided to run away, but say he did...”

In-passing, Hermann remembers something that Jonathan said, once, about not enjoying any Brewster's company, about hating them all – does he include himself in the affirmation ? He doesn't seem to have any liking to this name, it shows in the way he always calls his grandfather by his last name, the name they both share, as if distancing himself from it.

The rain has grown thinner, but none of them have an umbrella and they are wringing. Jonathan's burgundy sweater – by far the most joyful color anyone has ever seen on him – is the only thing between him and the cold, which is absolutely _insane_ on a December, 31, but what isn't ? At least they're both wearing good shoes, Jonathan's a bit more expensive than Hermann's, who's gathered all his Reichmarks to buy himself good leather shoes when the chill started covering the city. Soaked by the rain, Jonathan's dark hair would hang wet and limp on his forehead, but he regularly slicks it back with a gesture of the hand, in some strange parody of vanity.

“What were you doing by the door, then ?” he asks, and for a second Hermann stands still, afraid that the terrifying gleam in the other man's irises has returned, but the question almost seems genuine, curious. And it's an interesting one, at that.

“Because I know that you-”

“You know nothing.”

“- I can _guess_ that you're good enough at opening up your body without my help, bout you'd need someone to take care of the aftermath.”

“They always say that,” and it doesn't sound quite like anger or a rebuke, “that I _need_ things. Think they can deduce it by what I say, what they see, but you'll have to assume I'm telling the truth to begin with.”

“The truth. Were you lying when you said you got stabbed in a dead end ?”

“That's not what I said.”

He waits for him to dwell on the subject, but he doesn't. Once again, he'll has to settle on what he got.

“And you, what are your plans for the night ?” Hermann asks.

The man's eyebrow arches, which brings him to notice that there's a new scar on his face – something that looks like a burn, across his right eyebrow, matching the one he'd already noticed on his lower lip. For the first time in the extended history of his conversations with Jonathan, he feels that he's on the right track.

Jonathan shrugs the question off. “Things to do.”

“Not one for the Christmas spirit ?”

“In two months at most I'll be gone, “Jonathan growls, “and there's nothing in this town that's worth building memories for. And this year – there are bad news coming. Nothing worth celebrating.”

Hermann slow down his pace some, contemplating his options. He'd never seen Jonathan in such a _good –_ understand : tolerable – mood ever since they met, and it may be the last opportunity he has to actually have a conversation with the man. Two months, he ponders – he'd always been so focused on the future since childhood, so good at picturing himself years from now – but now he barely knows where he'll be in a two weeks time, except that he'll still be a man and a surgeon and someone that'll regret it a lot if he doesnt speak now.

“Fancy a drink, then ? I know a place not far from here.”

And Jonathan looks bewildered at the very thought of leisure time, but he nods nonetheless.

  


At midnight, they (or rather Hermann, along with a somehow reluctant Jonathan Brewster) toast to anti-fascim, to future, and to talent.

  


Next thing he knows it's morning – not quite, actually, but the January sun is slowly starting to rise, meaning it's somewhere around 8 A.M – well, yes, then, it's very much morning. The first morning of 1928, and they're standing in front of the river Neckar. Hermann resists the urge to start throwing stones at the pristine surface of the water, out of sheer hate of clichés – before remembering that they're watching the sunrise on January, 1, which means that they are knee-deep in clichés already. But instead of filling him with scorn, the thought makes him feel warm inside, and he hides his smile under his scarf, the way he used to do in the early Heidelberg times. He also keeps his hand at the bottom of his pockets, the inebriation washing off. Jonathan has drunk, too, but with no effect whatsoever - not a wrinkle added to his forehead, or a word higher than the other - it's astonishing. If anything, the purple bags under his eyes have grown a shade darker.

Hermann starts walking on the deck and, for the first time, Jonathan falls in step with him.

“Ever thought about suicide ?” Jonathan asks. A most accurate conversation topic.

“Probably. It's hard not to when you're up to the neck in beef hearts, in human livers – in corpses. Why ?”

“You have no idea what being surrounded by corpses means.”

Hermann smile. “That's not really an answer.”

“Yours wasn't either.”

“Well, if you want a real answer, then yes, I have. But not in a way that I'd ever want to do it. Not sad, not melancholic. Just plain scientific – cut open my wrists like a beef heart...”

“This is a most unusual answer, you know.” (and it's not the first time Jonathan has told him that, that he's unusual, and it still feels like a good thing in his mouth.)

“... see the insides, try to get what all the fuss is about.” Hermann finishes.

His neck feels sore, and his body is freezing, and he'd want nothing more than to get in the nearest café, but he knows Jonathan could vanish at any moment, and with him the feeling of that starry night, so he avoids any sudden move. Some animals, you can't tame them – he'd never want a forest fox in the garden of his house, for instance. Instead you have to walk closer, step by step, try to draw them to you, open your palm wide when giving them something so as not to get bitten. Wait for what happens next.

But his precautions are useless – Jonathan checks his watch (his bottom lip quivers oh-so-slightly, but he's quick to regain composure) and hurries in the opposite direction without a word.

“Where are you going ?” Hermann calls.

No answer.

“When can I see you ?”

No answer.

“Johnny, wait-”

A slap across his sorry face, and a fist, pulling his hair backwards.

“Shut up.”

Nothing's left of the Jonathan of the night. Nothing remains of the man who bought him schnapps with a sigh, who smirked at Hermann's tales, who raised an inquisitive eyebrow when the smaller man drunkenly confessed of his adventures in the bars downtown, the man who didn't say he kissed men but didn't say he didn't, who sat on a bench outside the city at 4 A.M, smoked a cigarette and looked at the stars, monster and human, imperfect and mesmerizing. The man who didn't remove his shoulder when Hermann's hand rested on it for an instant. The man who's wounded and brings back new wounds every day, and still toasted to the future and sounded like he meant it. This man's gone, and Hermann is terrified by this fact for more than one reason.

“I'm sorry, I- leave you alone, but- we'll see each other again, won't we ?”

“If I'm there to see it,” Jonathan says, half-barking. But still, he seems to have calmed some. Out of the blue, he adds. “These might not be my best interests.”

“Well you'll figure out, won't you ?” Hermann replies immediately.

He almost immediately regrets it, this comment who sounds either scornful or flirtatious, and can be understood as both, by a man who doesn't particularly enjoy any of these attitudes. But Jonathan doesn't move, fingers the third button of his sweater, eyes on the ground. As if contemplating something. When his hands finally stop trembling (it takes two or three spasms of his upper body before he reaches that point), he looks at Hermann in the eye, and there's something in his gaze that's reminiscent of the man he was during the night. A second later he really turns around and leaves, and this is the first time Hermann watches him exit a conversation without feeling like he'll never see him again.

Jonathan's voice is low when he finally answers, already walking away. “Yes, I will.”

  


  


The day of the operation, his eyes snap open at 9 A.M sharp. He remains seated in his bed for several confusing seconds, dizzy, surprised that he managed to fall asleep at all. His last memory is him lying awake in bed, eyes wide unshut, heart racing, machine-gunning his brain with “it'll be alright it'll be alright it'll be alright”s. He's spent the entire month of January pushing the thought away, telling himself there'd still be time to worry once on the surgical table (and, when it didn't work, remembering in replay his night with Jonathan, a memory good enough to distract him from the oncoming operation more than once). But now that the surgical table is six hours in front of him, suddenly, it sounds way less easy. He's gone to bars once or twice in the meantime, in Fritz's company – when isn't he ? - seen Wilhelm a couple times there and blatantly ignored him (a useless, albeit noble, gesture : the man didn't seem to remember his face, or even his mere existence, for that matter). January has been a month of waiting like he'd never waited before in his life – the sheer frustration and _relief_ of knowing that there is literally nothing he could do to quick up the process.

(Some things have changed, though ; the simple fact, for example, that Jonathan and him now nod at each other -and once or twice, they've _smiled-_ whenever crossing paths in the hallway ; the fact that they talk, from times to times, and of course Hermann would like those times to be more frequent, but he doesn't want to destroy everything. Slow will do. At least he hasn't seen the _gleam_ in Jonathan's eyes since New Year.)

He is quick to get dressed, hesitating in front of his wardrobe as to whether he should bind or not.

(The doctor, he met him a week ago – a surgeon, who knows von Hirschfeld (and seems so proud of this fact that he's mentioned it thrice along the conversation), and, officially, devotes himself to plastic surgery (and less officially, to any kind of underground surgeries that people are willing to pay a high price for). But on the outside, his job is to do regular plastic surgeries, for regular women. When Hermann first visited him, he had to await an hour in the waiting room, so he spent it studying the faces plastered across the walls, bright photographs, gorgeous ones, all smiles and eyelashes, and plastic up to the wrinkles of their eyes. As someone who despises normality, he found himself strangely drawn to this _asepticized_ perfection, the endless possibilities of such an art as plastic surgery – maybe because such perfection is as abnormal and out of the norm as deformity.)

He decides not to bind, then immediately regrets his decision, binds, sighs, takes off the bandages, and finally settles on his loosest shirt, which sort of hides the curves. His stomach feels far too tight to accept food, but he forces two slides of black bread down his throat anyway. He's been a doctor for too long to ignore needs in favor of wants.

(He's also very much... gotten closer to Lothar, the mustached friend of Fritz's, the last time he went, a good two weeks ago. Gotten closer as in lips against lips ( _and yes, since you asked, he did have,_ _while they were kissing,_ _this recurrent intrusive thought of how Jonathan's lips would feel,_ _an innocent thought, really, just so he could do_ _a comparative study – he's a doctor, before anything else_ ), gotten closer as in his back against a corner of a side room of the bar, legs weak, another man's weight between him and the rest of the world, and the only thing that detained this train which both of them knew _perfectly_ where it was heading, was some dark thing pooling in Hermann's guts, that looked too much like fear to ignore. He pushed him away, invoking some random excuse, promising him that they'd finish this someday, and hurried back to their table, where Fritz was waiting for him with a wide, stupid grin on his face.)

In the twenty-minutes bus ride to the doctor's office, located even more down south than his flat, strangely, he thinks of Eugen. Think. As if he'd ever stopped. As if every part of this transformation didn't feel like he was falling in his brother's footsteps. A thought crosses his mind, a new one, but intrusive : what if he was stealing his brother's body, blooming into his silhouette – and soon growing into an age that Eugen has never lived through ? He died at 23, and 1928 will soon bring Hermann's 22nd birthday. The corpse in the forest could have been anything from 17 years old to a hundred years old. Could be anyone, from Frau Schertz's grandson to his brother to his brother to his brother. He shivers, trying to shake the feeling out of his bones.

 _It was a lie, what he said earlier, about Eugen never leaving his thoughts/_ he gets out of the bus, crosses two streets/ _his ghost visits him less and less often, even fainter than it was three years ago, on the first Battle of Champagne's anniversary,_ / he knocks on the door, hands clasped on his collar to protect his face from the early February cold/ _once he even caught himself calling him Ernest in his head_ / a secretary opens the door, he enters, waits standing for a couple minutes/ _but he needs so bad to believe that someone in his family would be proud of him, of everything he's done, believe that you can crave ungodly surgeries such as this one and still be an ace medicine student, and his brother is the only person whose opinion on the subject will never be known for sure._

The secretary calls his name and he breathes deep, deep. He couldn't tell which thought he clings onto to get the courage to follow her – Eugen's radiant smile on the photographs, Karla's smug smirk, Fritz's exuberant laugh, Jonathan's side grin under the rain, or his own face in the reflection of the mirror that covers one of the walls of the corridor they're walking through, to get to the operation room.

Palms out for a handshake, white coats, the bright lights, the pale blue gloves – he's seen it all before. Nothing new. Life will keep on afterwards with the same himself, only planer, and breathing more deeply. This time there's no risk to pass out or to shiver. It's almost unreal, how he walks to the table, takes off his shirt and leaves it in an adjacent room, listens to the doctor, answers every question, obeys every order, it's not him, it has to not be. He's already all eyes in his normal life, but he's never opened them as much as he does now, so wide, getting all this light in his retina, in himself – lamp, neons – his fingernails, the metal feet of the table, the operative shirt, glowing.

(He's in the library all over again).

“I'm waiting to be born,” he wants to say, as he lies mouth up on the table, his arms resting by his side, an anesthetic needle entering his arm, “and the doctor-”

The doctor puts him to sleep.


	7. Cannot own this crash (cannot will myself into understanding)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can be there when the wheels reverse across the rubble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy so actually chapter 7 was getting a bit too long so I added some of it at the end of chapter 6 ! So even if you've read chap6 already it'd be good to read it again because there's new stuff !

He should have stayed in bed for a full week – but this is a luxury he cannot afford (especially since the second semester has just started, and he’ll soon have to chose a major for his second year), and _bed rest is being asked to lay still with one of the person he trusts the least_ , as the poet says. He settles on spending three days in his room, asking his landlady to bring him some food (she can't say no, he's probably the quietest student she's ever seen, and as soon as she learns he's just undergone surgery, even though she doesn't know _which kind_ exactly, she accepts to do anything he might need). Afterwards, he rests as much as he can, takes _care of himself_ (what a wild concept) and keeps studies to a minimum. The man told him not to remove the bandages before a week or so, and Hermann does as he's told, even though he can barely contain himself, and wherever he goes, whatever he does, his thoughts always wander back to this newly built chest of his. The hygiene in the apartment is far from perfect, though, the way it is in all of those cheap-ish flats in the city ; none of the modern comfort, like hot water all year, or flawless electricity, etc. All the things the richest students in his promo have, and that he may never have.

He doesn't skip classes – he's a doctor before he's anything else – but he does stop studying late at night, and instead he lays in bed, reflecting upon his future, his dreams, his body, and sometimes his body under someone else's body, under a man's or a woman's or anything in between's body – he tries to avoid those thoughts, though, because they remind him of the mess of a shell he now lies into. Surprisingly, his vag... what is _down there_ is one of the parts of his body he likes the most, or at least hates the least ; after all, he knows from experimentation ( _he's a doctor, before anything else)_ that those parts can prove themselves highly pleasurable, once used correctly. His fantasies are, for the most, filled with men, men like them, but men like him, too ; all kinds of men, kinds he's sure exist out there, apart from the few he's seen in Fritz' company.

The world, though, keeps spinning around. As it used to. But at night, when he gazes at the bandages, when he sees how a weight is off his back, at night, it all feals so surreal that he'd believe anything – even for the earth to be as flat as his newly reconstructed chest.

The first time he attends his classes, Fritz stares at him, grinning from ear to ear, slapping him on the back – he knows he looks terrible, with pale skin and deeply tired eyebags, but he forces a smile anyways. As if everything was back to normal – only better.

Normal, or almost. Fritz vanishes right afterwards. At first, Hermann's puzzled ; then, startled ; then, anxious- then downright livid.

 

He doesn't fade away slowly, doesn't start skipping classes, doesn't pop up mornings on end with eyebags and stubble ; he simply and suddenly disappears- one day he's here and the next he isn't. Hermann wonders how impervious he must have been, for how long the signs have been there, how many cries for help his friends has sent.

There isn't much to do ; nails to bite and loose ropes to fidget, all day, wondering why the hell Fritz isn't here, if he's sick, if something's wrong. Maybe Fritz resents him for something, maybe he should care more, maybe he's never been very good at give-and-take, really. He should ask some friend of Fritz' about the guy, but his classmate doesn't really hang out with anyone at school except him – and there's no way Hermann will hit the bar on his own just to ask about someone who surely is just headcold.

Not to mention that he's tired as hell, those days – the mess of skin on his chest needs constant care, and the physical and emotional stress has been coming and going in waves for days on end, and it's downright exhausting. He struggles to keep up with his studies, can't picture himself wasting any energy on leisure, let alone on so draining an activity as going to queer bars – he’s just trying to survive this week, and then the next, and the one after that.

But he's scared, though. He's scared something happened. It's just, when you get so used to your own problems, to your own struggles, you tend to forget some people have it better but still bad. And he's not enough of an hypocrite to pretend that Fritz has it easy – every other day there's this story about some respectable middle-aged man whose sex life finds itself plastered across every major newspaper, and it lasts for five or six days, and the man commits suicide, and it's all done. There was a movie about it some years ago, a nationwide _tollé_ ; maybe it doesn't make you feel so good about being different, considering that it ends in blood and tears, but you can't blame a man for being realistic, can you ? Hermann didn't see it, but there was no need for it ; the upheaval it triggered was loud enough. And he was ten years old back then, a good kid, a good child, and there was no way in hell his parents would have let him hear about it, but when your house is so full of silence, you learn to hear the whispers. _Different from the others,_ it was called. Here's to wondering how many levels of _differentness_ is too many.

The vanishment doesn't last long, though. A week later, Hermann's having lunch by himself in this restaurant next to the university (he's recently had a salary upgrade, which is welcome ; those days, the German economy isn't doing so bad, especially with the USA sending money over and over again. As long as _their_ economy don't collapse, his country’s on a good momentum). He raises his eyes, somewhere half through his serving of mashed potatoes, and his gaze instantly meets Fritz'. In the distance, outside of the restaurant. The two males freeze. Stare at each other for a while. Next thing he knows, Hermann is storming out of the restaurant, ignoring the owner calling for him to come back and pay for his lunch.

“Hello”, he says, with outmost originality.

No answer.

“You've been away.”

No answer.

Hermann wants to leave, he really does, because he's never seen his friend like this. Tired. Hair messy and sticky, locks falling on his eyes from under his hat. His shoulders are slumped like he's holding something far too heavy on his shoulders, but there's nothing except his coat on them – a grey, dull coat, which Hermann's positive he's never seen him wear before. Fritz doesn't answer, doesn't answer, keeps not answering, and at some point he even makes a move sideways to try to escape from the younger man.

“Fritz, talk to me.” This time he catches the guy's sleeve and physically pulls him towards him – he's not good at being ignored, and especially not when he's trying for one of the first times in his life to actually _do_ something for someone. _Gott in Himmel_ , he better react soon, because Hermann has no plan B.

And then he speaks, voice so tired it sounds like he’s daydreaming. “Hermann ?”

Said man’s head raises instantly.

“It's just like they said in the papers,” Fritz whispers.

Hermann stares at him like he's just set his own sleeve on fire. He expected- some crazy story, one of those adventures that only seem to happen for other people to hear in awe, the kind Fritz would spend hours telling him about ; this one time he followed a guy he'd just met all the way to Berlin and dumped him one week later, how he once made out in an alley next to a busy street, where _people could have almost seen him._ Anything to comfort him, the “at best” scenarios he's pictured ever since Fritz vanished, some crazy tale about how he's spent the last two weeks in his lover's bed, sleeping a new hangover off every morning until two.

But he hasn't.

“Hermann, this is not going to be a good year.” Fritz' hands are restless, to and fro between his pockets and the back of his head – he scratches his need-a-haircut locks with yellow fingernails. But Hermann wo'nt take any of this.

“You- you disappeared. Just like this. Didn't leave a word. I thought you'd blown town.”

( _thought you were disgusted by what my body is turning into_ , he leaves unsaid, but not unthought of. Because this is a possibility he has _definitely_ considered.)

“Oh, please, shut up.”

Hermann freezes. This is the same voice Jonathan used on New Year. Same tome, same venom. A voice that makes his heart beat faster and his stomach churn – he does his best to master it, to control the earthquake. At least, now, he can be positive that the shallow breathing and spinning head aren't caused by poor binding, as it has for the last couple of months.

He figures it's the right time to get damn angry.

“Now you tell me what the hell is going on, Fritz. Or I'll drag your ass to school and find out by myself.”

The man turns blemish white in an instant – although out of surprise or of fear, Hermann can't tell. But at least next second he finally opens up.

“It's- Blackmail. A- a guy I don't know has been sending me those letters. How he'll reveal I'm h- homosexual. Tell everyone. I'm never gonna be a doctor, Hermann, if he even- even says a word of this-”

There's nothing in him that would look even faintly like the flaming young man he was a couple of weeks earlier ; the one claiming high and proud (but still not too high, and in a few very specific venues) he wasn't ashamed, and that Hermann shouldn't be either. Come to think of it, it's not unlikely to imagine someone overheard them ; they should have been more careful, the two men know that, but it can't be helped, not when one is meeting with his _kind_ for the first time and when the other finds an odder thing than himself for the first time, can't be helped ; they just had to talk about it again and again and forget for a moment that they were undercover. Fritz has changed, something that runs deep under his fancy-ish tailored-ish clothing, deep under his skin. Something happened. Something akin reality.

“Oh, Fritz, I'm sorry. It'll be okay,” Hermann says, and he squeezes his friend's shoulder lightly. It's not much (they're in public, and the slightest contact tends to get read as too intimate) but Fritz still shudders at the touch. He too must have followed the same reasoning.

He repeats, “it'll be okay” even though he knows it wo'nt, but he does, because he doesn't know what else to say, because he shares the blame for not warning Fritz to keep his voice low when they talked in the hallways, because the list of far-right classmates who could've heard them and sent the letters in order to rid the University – _the country_ – of repulsive deviants such as them is longer than his arm. (Longer than the walk ahead for equality.) Because he should've seen it coming. But if he said all that, it'd be kind of depressing. “It'll be okay,” he repeats.

Fritz would have every right to get angry at the banal and dull statement, but he doesn't ; he breathes in deep, tilts his chin up and closes his eyes, fidgeting his temples nervously. The gesture looks a lot like someone holding back tears. Hermann doesn't comment on that.

“Have any clues on the man ? I mean, who he is ? And what did he say exactly – you sure he knows ?”

“Except if you have any other interpretation for _a handful of hundreds marks may keep my mouth sealed about your inverted activities_ , you know. And no. No name, of course. A rather pretty handwriting, something curvy and slender. But I've got a couple of suspects – made a list (I had plenty of free time), narrowed it down to three or four.”

“Three or four suspects ? Impressive, Fritz.”

“Three or four _Schweinehund_ who might just be twisted and repulsive enough to do this kind of low blow,” Fritz whispers, trying to force a smile through gritting teeth.

There's some silence. They had started walking together at the beginning of the conversation, and have broken some distance ; Hermann has no idea where they are, but right now, little does it matter.

“I didn't call, Hermann, I know. I just... Well, might as well keep you out of trouble.” The man's voice sounds weary. Sounds I-haven't-slept-a-wink-in-days.

“Fritz, that's trouble I clearly don't want to be kept out of. Not ever. Not if it means you end up slicing your veins or blowing your brains off.”

“I'll marry a girl and make her a dozen of sweet children before I kill myself, Hermann, you ought to know that.” (Yes, he knows. It wouldn’t be his friend’s type to off himself, not at all. But these are extraordinary circumstances, which Fritz might have thought called for extraordinary measures.)

“Where were you going, by the way ?” Hermann asks. Fritz shrugs, says he just needed air – after all, he hasn't left home in a week. Says he was starting to get his spirit back, ready to not let himself crumble under the threats.

Another sigh, somehow more determined, I-can-do-this-y, and : “I'll find who he is, that's what I'll do. Enough. Plus in two weeks I'll run out of money to give him. Already sort of have.”

Hermann looks at his friend sideways and the weight on his chest lifts a little. He’ll handle this.

 

*

 

He studies, then.

Not classes. Not exclusively. Studies people, mostly. He hadn't noticed, but his months in Heidelberg had turned him into quite a talker – with Fritz, his friends, the professors, his desperate attempt at conversation with Jonathan, even his landlady lately, who's been fairly curious about this surgery he's had (he's made up something, smothered her in medical vocabulary until she smiled nervously and called it a night. Other than that she's some sweet old woman he enjoys the company of.)

A talker he'd turned into, then, but the last few weeks have been full of silence, and he studies how now what's left unsaid feels trapped inside of his mouth, how he needs to speak to other humans, when he's spent his entire childhood talking only to the trees and the sun-lit books of the library.

But no, what he studies the most those days is people's faces. Brewster's, mostly (that is, the older one). It has changed. There are so many wrinkles of worry on the old man's face that it doesn't seem to have a square inch left to care about what preoccupies or not his students ; therefore, the professor doesn't ask Hermann how he's doing anymore, or cares about his whereabouts. Now he's acting strange even in class ; whatever is on his mind is getting stronger. Once he even spaced out – forgot where he was, only came back to his senses after a couple of dreadfully long seconds of confused glances exchanged between students.

Jonathan, on the other hand, seems to fuel on the cold (and cold it is, albeit less than in his hometown – pregnant clouds heavy with snow at any given hour of the day, a lingering smell of frost and ice even in the warmest of rooms). He now walks the hallways with the look of a conqueror. And once Hermann has moved the _Fritz-problem_ upside down, inside out and rightside up, and hasn't come up with a solution, he has space to think about something else ; and he finally notices. Notices Jonathan has been roaming the school hallways more than ever – now he's there every other day, sometimes two or three days in a row, and he's definitely up to something.

On a Friday morning, they talk. Even more unbelievable, it's Jonathan who initiates it.

« Hi. »

Hermann stops and answers instantly, as if he'd been rehearsing it several times in his head.

« Hello, Jonathan. »

« As you can see, I've made some room in my schedule. » Jonathan leans against the walls, seemingly intending on staying here for quite some time.

« How awfully nice of you. » No. Too ironic. Hermann corrects himself. « I mean it – how have you been ? »

Jonathan doesn't answer. So common a question is not worthy of one, as it seems. « Guess you're voting in those upcoming elections, huh ? » he asks instead.

He's referencing the elections in May, probably. The ones where everyone just expects the SPD to crush everyone else – but who knows.

« Probably. Can't have much of an action otherwise, in those times. » Truth be told he hasn't gotten registered as voter yet – he's trying to figure out how he can do so with no papers to his name (to his real name, that is) but the other man doesn't need to know that, does he ?

A terrifically good mood that Jonathan must be in, because he seems elated, he does – ready to take over the whole world in a crazy laugh. Hermann's used to it by now. To the mood swings. The only question he asks himself is when Johnny will be gloomy again ; when he'll be angry again ; and when he'll go full circle back to gleeful, and so on.

« Figured you'd say so, Hermann. The thought of actual politics hasn't crossed your mind, I presume, like so many of our cocitizens. But surely you haven't tuned out on this fascist trend we're witnessing ? »

Hermann glances nervously around. « Sure. I mean, no. No, I haven't ».

« It's this guy. This Hitler, he's talking, all the time, everywhere we go. Especially here, down South. And I can't count how many of his little followers we could find here if we did a survey. » (English. Jonathan's speaking English again. Funnily, what makes Hermann notice is the way he pronounces Hitler's name – with a distinctively foreign accent, especially on the r, soft and swallowed.)

Hermann looks sideways to the group of young men chatting merrily a few meters away. Two of them are fascists, he knows this for a fact ; they were the guys handing out swastika leaflets earlier in the year. One of them turns around, and the eye contact lasts long, terribly long ; a wave of cold takes over Hermann's body and he wants to disappear, get swallowed by the floor, shrink into non-existence. Would Jonathan want that ? The guy looks away and resumes his conversation (what do fascists small-talk about?) and Hermann glances down at his feet, trying his best to tune in to whatever the younger Brewster is saying.

« -I'd kill them if I ever get my hands on them. I never thought there'd be some political group I'd hate more than Weimar. »

Hermann quirks an eyebrow. « I didn't know you were involved in politics. »

Jonathan _laughs_. Now that is most definitely a first. Not too unpleasant, also.

« No, Hermann, you know better – we're all involved in this mess. And being apolitical isn't going to change a thing except leaving room to these birds there. » (he motions towards the group of young men next to them).

(So he knows about the guys. Know them. Then again, those guys don't make much of a mystery of their political beliefs.)

« I try not to worry too much about it, » Hermann says, trying to sound relaxed when he's everything but. « They're all too crazy to ever be in power, anyway. »

The world stands still. Something unusual happens – Jonathan instantly shifts to his angry self and Hermann gets scared, so quick, but a second after he's already calm again.

« Crazy. I'm- no. I don't think Hitler is. »

Hermann looks at him ; he's got a funny look on his face, like he's understood something, something he doesn't have the words to express, but-

When he finally goes to class, he notices the way Jonathan keeps glaring at the young fascists. He notices, but he remains silent. The words that felt trapped in his mouth are gone, at last. Hermann keeps walking away, heading to the adjacent building in a fast pace because he's already late for class, but he can’t stop himself from looking back again and again, a quick glance over his shoulder.

Jonathan hasn't moved. He's resting against the wall, lighting a cigarette. Sometimes a shiver takes him over, and some tobacco drops down to the floor. And Hermann thinks-

 _This is it_. Something bigger than him, and he wishes to be a part of it. He'd like to laugh at his younger self's face and tell him that now, he knows. He knows. Jonathan's footsteps could drag him all the way to what he isn't yet and he'd still follow. He knows.

Jonathan's finger taps on the ashes.

 

Paying for his tuition fees of the next semester (the one he's attending the best he can, now that the stitches on his chest finally give him some break) reminds him that starting next year, he'll have to chose a specialization. Next year. The thought of half his first year already behind fills him with both dread and awe. Before, he marked the big events in his life (it was handy) with the biggest crime cases in Germany – he knows he got his Abitur in the midst of the Hinterkaifeck murders, those six people mysteriously killed in a farm next to Munich (he'd been passionated about those for weeks). He also knows he started fueling his body with potential (understand : the right hormones) shortly after Brückner's killing spree. It makes him feel more peaceful, to know that he's part of the great History ; one day he'll be the one whose achievements are used as milestones for others' lives, but in the meanwhile, serial killers will have to do. He likes it, to document his life with something unusual, something not everyone knows about. Especially for dramatic events, it puts things in perspective.

(When they sent home the new of Eugen's disappearance, they said he died somewhere between the 2nd of March and the 12th. In the exact same timespan, someone probably killed someone else somewhere in Europe, or in America, or on Earth. He wonders if their relatives know they grieved for them both – their friend or lover or parent who died, and Eugen, gone on the exact same day. Wonders if that day God had fun picking the unlucky ones who would pass away – he wonders if He does that ever yday. He thinks of the corpse in the forest -again and again and again- and ponders, if it really is Eugen, how he could walk all the way from Champagne to Germany and die there just before the village.)

He shuts his eyes tight tight tight.

 

So he's got to chose a specialization. He hadn't really ever comprehended how childish he was, how infantile his behaviour turned out to be – so busy persuing his dream, he never came to picture himself _there._ Well, he did, of course, but in his daydreams it was never... Never him. And he would never stop to ponder how exactly it was supposed to arrive, this bright future ; all the steps in between, left to take. That's why he finds himself looking at the options and there's nothing in him but confusion. He remembers plastic surgery, how it caught his attention in the surgeon's office. Or neurosurgery. He knows little to nothing about the topic, but it's some brand-new, cutting-edge area there. They say humans have barely began to understand how this mess of transmittors of a brain works, and they say that what little we've discovered is groundbreaking. We live in the century of scientific breakthrough, they say.

Extra classes are available, as early as the second semester of the first year, they also say.

And he doesn't seek commitment to anything but his studies and his transition right now -they're enough, with Jonathan, to keep him busy out of his mind- but... There's a conference next week on the topic. He figures he can give it a try.

The letters are painted bright red on white boards. “Sick in the inside : between brain and body”, it says. Hermann takes the leaflet they hand him. The employee sports a pretty, white, straight-toothed smile, a perfect-shaped mouth, and Hermann hides his between his coat. He's not smiling. He's thinking.

 

But from browsing leaflets to actually attending the conference – and it's late in the evening, on a cold February night in which he'd much rather be studying by the heating stove in his room – there's only one step, and he takes it.

« Welcome, everyone. First I'd like to congratulate you all for making it through this semester ; you are the elite of this nation, and may God help you become respected doctors in the future, who will uphold German values and standards all over our beloved continent. »

The man is of average build, with a slightly longer than normal torso, but it gives him some kind of balance and assertiveness when he talks, as he walks around the amphitheater.

He’s smiling, also. And then he begins his lecture.

 

Most students look as dumbfounded as he feels when he exits the amphitheater, once the conference is over, but he wonders how many of them feel their hands shaking as he does. After all, this reaction here (trembling wrists) is a very personal one, something that happens like clockwork in all the important moments of his life. Luckily he doesn't smoke, because it'd prevent him from preparing a decent cigarette when he's in that state.

The conference left his brain buzzing with interest, in a way it generally only does when he’s very, _very_ interested in something.

Because he _did_ feel like there was a connection with the man’s words. He even participated once or twice, bringing up some interesting (albeit maybe a bit too controversial) topics that managed to sparkle debates in the audience. That connexion he feels, it isn’t one of relatablity. He isn't “sick in the inside” (at least, he doesn't feel like he is). But the topic still fascinates him.

Of course, he can't help but be relieved when he realizes they mentioned neither homosexuality nor transvestites among the mental illnesses they listed. Maybe it was so obvious that they didn’t need to. Maybe it was too taboo to expose in a conference.

Anyway, it would've been awkward.

There’s something on his mind right now, bugging him, and he really can’t put his finger on it ; it has something to do with someone, someone he knows, an important idea to share. But it keeps buzzing in the back of his mind with no intention to make itself known.

 

*****

Hermann doesn't dream. And by that I don't mean that he doesn't daydream, because we all know he does, all cold-handed and close-eyed, it is common knowledge now that he's always looking up for something he's not even sure is there (a doctor degree, safety, love, and so on). But he saves the reveries for the daytime, and whenever he's alone in bed, he blacks out and wakes up the next morning as if from a drunken sleep, the entire night erased from his memory. Hermann doesn't dream.

Yet he does. On very, very rare occasions. He remembers dreaming of Eugen the night he first considered the possibility of the corpse in the forest being his brother's. He remembers seeing a faceless silhouette hugging his parents goodbye, tight, tight, tight because it was going to war, wearing the German uniform already, but it wasn’t leaving. The goodbyes were endless. And Hermann was telling the phantom to leave, to go, because he had to, and also because he didn't really see the silhouette's features and he was secretly dead afraid it was no longer his brother but already a corpse. It was a short dream, not a very vivid one, and it still stuck with him for weeks on end. He dreamed the night after seeing _Metropolis_ too, except the dream had nothing to do with the movie, or not really. Bodiless arms were floating around his old room, the one in his hometown, and cruising his body in exactly all the wrong places ( _meaning all the ones he'd like to swap with another boy's)_ and he woke up dry-mouthed and aching.

And just that very night, he dreams again. It's been a month or so since the operation, and he still sleeps more than usual, still aches, still has trouble repressing a disappointed sigh whenever he sees the wasteland of scars that is now his chest. Fritz warned him – said it wouldn't go away before a few months. Still. For the first time in his life Hermann has nothing else to do than trust someone else completely – because there was nothing he could possibly do about the operation, except lie there and close his eyes and hope for the best – and he's not good at hoping. Still learning how to do it correctly. So he dreams, and he dreams hard, vivid and bright under his eyelids ; he dreams of colors, some shapeless sensation he can’t find words for while awake, not in German, not in English, no matter the progress he’s been doing lately in the latter, not in any language, no. He remembers heat and abstraction, until it slowly shifts to people and smiles and he’s in a large crowd, trying to see what it is they’re looking at. And the sky is limitless and a clear shade of beige and brown. And Jonathan is nowhere to be seen. Jonathan is dead. There are no scars on Hermann’s chest – his breasts are back. And he sees himself digging inside Jonathan’s chest with a scalpel instead of inside his own, because he messed up, he got the wrong guy, the wrong operation. But it’s all Jonathan’s fault. He shouldn’t have been involved in those fights, with knives and all. He’s sick inside. The operation will cure him. That’s what Hermann says so he can feel a little better about how he’s sliced the body into fifty perfectly equal pieces.

And now they’re both dead.

*

The day of his thirtieth shot of testosterone, they find a corpse in the school’s backyard, just next to a bush of magnolias the gardener treats like the floral form of Jesus, our Lord and Savior. The first days of March are rolling by ; those flowers bloom in the beginning of Spring, and they’re starting to show some bright purple on their petals.

He remembers it’s the thirtieth because he heard about the _incident_ on his way to the doctor’s, after his morning classes ; he saw a crowd gathered around the patio, buzzing and whispering like only crowds know how. Most days, when he knew he had an appointment, he tried to head straight to the doctor’s office after class, because it wasn’t so close to the Medical School, and because even after all this time he’s still terrified to be found out, and he wouldn’t want to tempt his luck too often. The later effects of the serum (he has an extensive knowledge of the list of expected symptoms, one of the very few things that Wilhelm guy brought him) have started appearing, like his hips thinning down drastically, his voice settling on a definitely lower tone, the vacuum between his thighs not having bled for months. Funny enough, his hairline has receeded a little. Maybe he’ll end up bald at thirty like his father.

(Eugen’s hairline didn’t have time to.)

But this day, he doesn’t go to the doctor. He heads for the crowd and jostles with the students until he manages to catch a glimpse of _it_ , of whatever has attracted so much attention (he’s so curious by nature, _a doctor, before anything else_ , and a researcher) – and his stomach tumbles down to his feet.

The corpse is a corpse, most certainly, because it seems highly unlikely for anybody to survive _this_. The first thing Hermann notices is the large wound on the chest ; blood smeared all over the dead man’s vest, as if slashed open by violent knife blows. This is what killed him, sure enough. But the _feature of interest_ here is the rest of the body. The throat, most importantly. How it is burned horribly, dissolving flesh from the man’s chin downards, all the way down to his heart ; his neck a mess of white melted epidermia. Acid, Hermann notes. Acid thrown at his face with unbelievable anger.

The man’s eyes are open, and very much so. His jaw (the part left untouched) gasping wide in horror.

A student he once paired with for a dissection turns to him (his name starts with an F, or something), starts talking about the corpse. Says they found him in the morning, two or three hours ago. No one has heard or seen anything. Hermann wants to answer but his tongue feels swollen, stuck to his desert-like palate. The boy’s name is Friedrich, he reckons. He has those big, bulging eyes, not unlike Hermann’s – only bluer. _Thanks, Friedrich,_ Hermann manages, somehow grateful to the boy for sharing the little information he has. They make small talk for some time, _who found it, are they going to temporarily shut down the school, what is there to study for that Anatomy exam next Tuesday,_ then Hermann leaves. And he throws up in the bathroom – it tastes cold. It tastes sour. He doesn’t go to his appointment. He can make the injection himself, just this time, he tells himself. He goes home, and he has to wait for his hands to steady before he’s able to touch the needle without crushing it.

It’s not so much the sight of a corpse that put him in this state (he’s past that by now, even though he has to admit that this one was spectacurlarly maimed), but the knowledge that something has gone terribly wrong at school ; and that everything is quickly rushing together to its conclusion. All that’s left is wait for the crash.

 

The first thing he does when he gets to school next morning is go to Fritz. Ask him if he’s heard about it.

Fritz is back to school, but not in a much better state. The blackmailing has been going on for more than a month now, and no matter what he said when they saw each other outside of school, he hasn’t been able to do anything about it. But the letters from the man have grown rarer those days, he says. He hasn’t been asking for a lot of money lately. He guesses that’s a good thing. When Hermann mentions the corpse, Fritz frowns ; looks like it’s news to him.

Hermann doesn’t really know how Fritz could let the murder go unnoticed, because there have been policemen roaming school for hours, trying to find clues. It is not a very important case (just some student killed in time of huge political trouble) but it’s the _savageness_ of the murder that makes it worthwile. Talks of a new serial killer in Berlin have been growing louder and louder. But Hermann knows what a serial killer looks like ; he has spent the last few years of his life keeping it as a dirty secret, a _péché mignon_ , and he’s got a feeling for that one that it’s not what it looks like. (For instance, the two buildings that have been burnt to the ground by an arsonist in the past three days – four dead and ten in the hospital – are much more likely to be the endeavour of a serial killer ; but he tries not to abuse of those examples, because, well, knowing so much about criminals is considered bad-mannered.)

Fritz doesn’t have much of an opinion on the subject, for once. Fritz would enjoy getting rid of the blackmailer. Fritz thinks it’s an important enough occupation for now.

 

That Friedrich guy is here again – he sees him after class on Wednesday. It seems like there’s only ever one expression on his face ; wide eyes with a somehow sheepish look, and a grin like a child hiding candies in his mouth, and pretending he didn’t steal them. Still, there’s something about him that’s reminiscent of Fritz. A younger, straighter version of Fritz ; somehow less proud, also. As if he’d never had to stand tall to stay alive.

Maybe it’s just the sight of Friedrich being so friendly when they’ve talked only three or four times, and never much more than small talk, but Hermann is taken aback. Maybe the young man is just very lonely. Hermann wouldn’t hold it against him, sure enough.

“Hermann ! The neurosurgery guy – the man from the conference – I have him in one of my classes, he told me about you, said he’d be elated to have you next year.”

Well, he’d be damned if he expected this. He doesn’t remember much from the conference, which was already two weeks ago – well, yes, he does, but the lecturer’s features were too common and far away, and they’re somewhat blurry in his mind. But he figures it can’t hurt, to leave a good impression on people. Even if he’s not fully sure yet whether he’s going to take the class next year. So he changes the subject.

“And the body ? You know, the- the corpse. Did they find anything ?”

“Not really”, Friedrich sighs. “I mean, they’re investigating, sure. It’s not everyday that they find such a… A situation, let’s say. Plus the guy was known in school. He was… Well… You know. Politically involved. His _absence_ doesn’t go unnoticed.”

Something cold dashes and rushes in Hermann’s veins. It never occurred to him – that guy, the young man who was murdered, who was he ? A student, most certainly, according to his age (and the insignia of the school was well visible on his chest ; that is, on the part that wasn’t viciously butchered) but…

“Yeah. You know. You must’ve seen him in the corridors. Rudolf Ahlers was his name. He was...” Friedrich quickly gazes to the floor, then utters with a smile that reeks nervousness with how poised he wants it to be : “a… one of the NSDAP ones. A nazi, like they say. Energic one, at that.”

Hermann’s throat is dry. His voice raspy. “Tall ? Blond, with dark brown eyes, full lips ?” The other man nods.

“I know who he is”, Hermann says _slowly_. “He… And you’re positive it’s him ? Him, burnt by acid, and very _dead_ out there ?”

“Well obviously they’ve taken the corpse away days ago, but… Yes. You would have recognized him right away, had you known who he was ; most of his head was still...” he swallows hard, “ _there_ , after all.”

Hermann should be glad there’s one far-right-scumbag less in school, but he isn’t. Not fully. That wrong feeling he had last week – it’s even worse now.

“No fingerprints on the body, of course. The police flounders. They’ll probably just give up at some point ; maybe not classify it as suicide, but something along those lines. Settling of scores. Vendetta.”

You damn bet they will.

Hermann swallows. There’s probably someone he should tell about this.

 

“I have-”

“You won't-”

Hermann and Fritz look at each other with a smile in the corner of their eyes. After a good thirty seconds of bargaining, of pleading the other to _please finish his sentence_ , _no, you first_ , it's Fritz who talks. It's strange ; Hermann half expected him to change his behaviour when he found out about... well, what kind of man Hermann was. But that was several months ago, back in the first time they went to the bar together, and Fritz has never called him a girl- not once. Not after the first few days of confusion, anyways. He doesn't talk over Hermann, doesn't treat him as any less of a surgeon, any less of _anything_ \- Fritz has downpoints, but sometimes, he _gets it_ , and the realization is incredebly comforting.

There's not a chance in a million he'll get the same reaction from the other students at school, so he doesn't even bother.

(He tries to avoid thinking about Jonathan, about what Jonathan will think of all this. How he will have to tell him one day.)

“You won't believe me,” Fritz says, “but- the blackmailer. He's vanished. Haven't heard from him in two weeks now ; he used to mail me twice a week, imagine. It sounds too good to be true.”

It sounds like a positive thing in his mouth. It probably is. After all, no news, good news, isn't it ?

“Well, great for you”, Hermann smiles. « I mean it, that's terrific. If he's laid off you for good. And assuming he didn't tell anyone, of course. It's almost too perfect- just when you'd decided to do something about it. Sure you didn't kill him yourself ?”

Fritz scratches his head, laughing. He's definitely gone back to his old self ; his hair is once again perfectly combed, and it once again frames his long face, in the exact same way it has since the beginning of the year. He drums a peaceful rythm on the table with his fingernails. The clouds are gone from his eyes as quickly as they arrived, a month ago.

“Well, you smart-ass, may I remind you I _still_ don't know for sure who it was ? I wouldn't kill three or four people just for the sake of being certain my blackmailer was among them. I'm not that kind of _Schwule.”_

It sounds like a funny word in his mouth. Always has. That's when Hermann realizes he's never heard of a boyfriend of Fritz's ; he's not even sure he does anything else than the occasional one-night-stands. Do homosexuals even have romantic relationships ? He's never been good at all this. He ought to ask Fritz. He takes a long sip of the beer they're having at his apartment ; they wanted to celebrate their results at the semifinal exams, but the snow dissuaded them from doing it outside, and they didn't feel like clubbing this particular night.

“Except if you're gonna tell me that poor fellow at Heidelberg was my blackmailer, of course,” Fritz sasses. “Well, don’t matter now. I'm done talking, it's your turn. What were you saying ?”

But Hermann's heart has just sank to his feet. God. God, _no_.

Fritz has noticed his discomfort. He cocks his head to one side, trying to figure out what's wrong. His fingers close on Hermann's elbow, try to shake him into consciousness. No reaction.

Because maybe- just maybe- he's realized what was wrong. This man, the corpse who's now lying in the morgue with a horrible scar on his face. He was that fascist from the corridors, the one handing out swastika leaflets. The one with the soft smile and the wolf teeth. The one parading in the streets, talking loud and clear with his friends in the corridors- the one Hermann almost befriended earlier in the year.

And there's a very high probability he was exactly the man who was sending those letters to his only friend in school, this young gay man who never did much harm to anybody.

_He should have seen it coming._

_He should have seen it coming._

_He_ goddamn _should have seen it coming._

He's dead. Someone killed him. Someone who can't possibly be Fritz.

 

He almost wishes Fritz was the murderer. Because he doesn't yet know the answer of the riddle, but he's fairly sure he won't like it.

 

*

 

Slowly, very slowly, things are changing. Most people don't notice that, moving on with their lives as always, but Hermann does. He's good at details. He sees that Brewster isn't getting any better, that the old professor keeps shaking and forgetting things and mixing up words and concepts. He sees that the police is starting to forget about the case, because March is two weeks in now, and everyone seems to be running low on time, even the men-in-blue. After all, they haven't grown much closer to finding the culprit than they were when they first started investigating. They've interrogated random students, installed some security measures, and managed to instigate a sense of uneasiness in the entire school, but they couldn't do much more, not when they didn't even have the tiniest beginning of a clue. That's the problem of murders like this one ; they seem so pointless, so random, that it's hard to imagine which kind of criminal mind would come up with it. They may have had more luck looking for political opponents – no one in school ignored that the young man worshipped Hitler – but they didn't dare to ; the situation in the country is tense enough as it is, and they don’t want to put their noses in it, not if they could pretend not to see it and just brush it off as some irrelevant element.

Hermann also sees that the scars on his chest have finally started to heal, one month after the operation. True, he’s been extremely careful with them, done everything they told him to do. Never has he been so patient, so attentive, before. He can't stop grazing it, his chest, peculiar as it sounds ; not when he's in public, of course, but when he's alone. He doesn't have sensation there yet, but it'll come, the doctor told him. It seems like there was no complication, which is a tremendous relief. He breathes deep, without worry, walks the street with scars no one can see, just like the rest of humanity. He took it like a man.

 

He's also gathered the nerve to go back to the bars – alone, this time. After that realization dawned on him, that it’s highly probable the dead man was Fritz’s blackmailer, and that it’s highly unprobable that the two things aren’t linked, he wants to move a little on his own. Figure things out.

By sheer coincidence, he meets Jonathan in the streets earlier that day, just in front of the University. It strikes him then that it's been almost a week since they last met there. Sure, it’s no worry matter, but Hermann had grown used to seeing Jonathan every other day, and now his absence seems loud and blinding. Surely, being his grandson, the taller man would have clues as to what’s happening with Professor Brewster (why he seems to be crumbling down) but Hermann doesn’t dare ask.

“Word's out you're going to study neurosurgery next year”, Jonathan says, as a conversation starter. Hermann’s baffled. It almost sounds like small talk.

“I may. Plastic surgery's on my list too.”

“Why ? Some kind of emotional connection to it ?”

Hermann quirks an eyebrow. There's no way Jonathan could know, is there ? About the surgery he’s just undergone ? But then again, one never knows which information Jonathan Brewster holds and which one he doesn't. So he plays it on the safe side.

« Not particularly. And you ? What have you been up to ? »

« … I need you to do something for me. »

The answer escapes Hermann's lips before he notices. « Whatever you want.”

« Those bandages- the one you gave me, I've ran out of them long ago. » It's painful to him, he can see that. To ask for help. Excruciating. « I... I need more. »

Well, he can go and buy some in a pharmacy, can't he ? But Hermann doesn't point it out. He just does what he does best – trust to the best of his ability that Jonathan knows what he's doing. But there's one thing he has to know first.

« You have... New wounds ? »

Jonathan's movement isn't exactly a _nod_ , but it means yes nonetheless. He looks up to the skyline, avoids Hermann's gaze, in some very human look of embarassment. _Yes. New wounds. Always more. It never stops. You ought to know that. You know who I am, more than most._

“Jonathan, we may have to talk about this sometimes, but, yes, I'll get it for you. The normal kind ?”

The younger Brewster's voice is low when he answers. “No. The... The special kind. You know. The one for burns. For- bad ones.”

Well now that's definitely a first. There's a headline that instantly invades Hermann's mind ; the arson that happened north of the city some time ago. The series of arsons, actually – three in two weeks. But there's no way Jonathan could be involved in that, is there ? He'd tell Hermann, surely ? Now at least that explains why he doesn't want to go buy them himself. Hermann's a medicine student, so it looks way less suspicious, but a normal citizen doesn’t have much use for this kind of bandages. One can't just go and ask for them with a straight face. Especially not when you have the kind of… _aura_ Jonathan walks around with.

“I will.” Hermann says. And they part ways, like they always do. And the young student heads downtown, towards one very specific bar, whose location he knows by heart by now.

 

And there he is, in the bar, which seems more full of smoke and crowded every time he goes there. He looks around, checks that Fritz isn't there – he isn't. After all, he can't be here _every night_. And he's fairly sure Fritz is up there at the library. They have a big group project coming, one where Hermann has teamed up with Friedrich, because it was during the weeks where Fritz went missing. He guesses it can't do him wrong to make another acquaintance in school, just in case things get bad. Fritz tends to get too involved in stuff, and Friedrich is great at providing information. Somehow, he always knows everything that's happening.

Fritz may have called it a night today, but Fritz's friends are very much there, in the back of the bar, and by then they know Hermann good enough to greet him with cheers and tell him to sit with them. There are new people, some men Hermann has never seen, a few women also ; some who look like they're definitely not planning on sleeping alone this night, and some who just have the face of normal youngsters partying with their friends, wanting to have a good time and drink good beer.

And then there's Lothar, of course.

His eyes cross Hermann's almost instantly. They haven't seen each other since the end of January, that time they kissed and the student refused to let things go further, for a reason he can't really point out. But now, to see this attractive man he's had under his hands once, to see him with that look in his eyes, it sends something down to his stomach that he can't quite identify.

He sits next to Lothar. Orders a beer, and squeezes in the conversation the best he can. He's grown better at this, and he takes a mental note to formally thank Fritz for that sometimes. Maybe take him out to dinner, if one day he has spare money after paying for the rent and all his expenses (such as the serum he sends down his bloodstream twice a month now). Pray Heavens that the USA’s economy stays this way, and Germany should be alright – and so will his wage.

Thirty minutes pass and Lothar's hand is already on his thigh. He knew this was coming. Two hours pass and his lips are on his throat – he knew this was coming, and he came here - and they're kissing hungrily in the same place as last time, only this time Hermann makes no attempt at stopping him. The others are either too drunk to notice, too focused on the poker game one of them has suggested, or too busy with flirts of their own to pay attention. He’s supposed to be a doctor before anything else, but right now, with someone’s hands on his hips (his hips, his hips, his too-wide hips, Lothar’s gonna notice, this is _bad, Lothar’s gonna notice)_ and another one like an invitation -

He forgets there’s a secret between his thighs, he forgets that Lothar expects to find a mirror of his own body in the man he’s devouring against a bar wall, not some awkward parody of a girl. Lothar whispers in his ear, _my flat is five minutes away_ , and Hermann nods, with the little elbow room he has left. Asks himself whether that’s why he chose to come here on his own tonight.

And Hermann nods, as they walk down the street, up the stairs, as they fall on the mastress, as he lets Lothar’s hands take ownership of his flotsam of a body. As the taller man takes off the young student’s shirt, and barely quirks an eyebrow at the scars across his chest. Waves it off as a duellist’s trophy, surely. Don’t think twice about it, until-

Lothar’s hands are going down to the front of his pants, and Hermann’s fingers clasp against his wrist, instantly. And he rushes, he hurries, as if the syllabes were falling from his mouth, big words only a medicine student can pull together at a time like this :

_wait, there’s this thing about my body, it’s a condition, but I’m just a normal guy_

_there’s this chromosome alteration, this heavy operation when I was a kid_

_the rest is just like any other guy’s, but down here…_

There’s a moment of silence, of processing the information, but well, if he rolls mouth down, there’s not much difference, is there ? For Lothar not to buy it would have meant hours of discussion and freaking out and none of them are very down for this right now, so he buys it.

God, does he buy it, he buys it by resuming his frantic feast on Hermann’s mouth, and then it’s just fingers, members, arms, feet pushing against the mastress, bodies and bodies and bodies and bodies and whose body and whose arm and whose lips and they’re just two men trying to catch up with what an entire world has been telling them is wrong since childhood, and they’re just two men who want each other and want this and maybe don’t understand everything the other is thinking but now is not a moment for mind-reading,

now is a moment for moans and moonlight.

 

*

 

Hermann goes back to school. He has to. And it’s not only because he feels like he’s floating on some cotonnish cloud, or because he feels the chains of hell dragging him to the floor, or both at the same time – he’s a doctor, before he’s anything else, and April is rolling by, and the end of the year is coming to a close.

And he tells Fritz. He has to. Not about Lothar’s body on his - about his hypothesis, about all he’s been thinking about. His classmate doesn’t freak out, doesn’t call him nuts or a lunatic. He takes his time to consider what Hermann just said – one, two, five seconds drag by, painfully slow – and then he says that maybe, it could be. He says he’s not so relieved anymore, says it’s too good a coincidence to be true, but then maybe it is. Fritz is self-centered (there is very little evidence to contradict that) but not to the point of getting _Schadenfreude_ over this kind of murder. They both promise themselves to sort this out one day, but for the moment, Hermann has class with Brewster, so they part ways, the gears of both of their brains still turning frantically. He’s not so sure which one makes a joke about _there’s something rotten in the kingdom of Heidelberg_ , but it doesn’t lighten up the room one bit.

Nevertheless, Brewster isn’t there. There’s only a flock of baffled students whispering about the teacher’s surprising absence. Brewster won’t be there for another two weeks. He doesn’t entirely believe it, when Friedrich warns him, five seconds later ; but when it’s an official of Heidelberg who repeats the same story, all serious in his two-piece suit, he does.

So he hangs around the library, idle and lost. Almost a month of eyebags and stubble on the worshipped teacher’s face, and it looks like he’s reached his breaking point.They all should have seen it coming. He shuffles around the place, trying to find something to catch his eye – he’s not so much in the mood for working, right now. Until something does.

“ _The incredible powers of the brain.”_

He takes the book, grazes the cover. Something about it feels like this time he saw Hirschfeld’s book all those years back ; there’s power in this publication, something between these pages that holds part of his future. Something that takes his mind off the consequences of his adventure with Lothar ; an adventure, he calls it, because he doesn’t want to face the consequences just now, because he’s not ready. Because he shouldn’t have to. Because the other boys who love boys are also afraid they’ll be dragged through the mud for what they are, but not both dragged to the mud and treated like something they aren’t ; it feels like a little too much.

Man with man, he can handle, no matter the slurs they attach to it. Girl-bretending-to-be-man with man, he’s not so sure.

But right now, he’s holding a book of around 400 pages and he knows no one would look for him there, so :

He opens it and starts to read.

 

 

And well. He doesn’t exactly escape the pages of the book until ten days later, when Brewster is back, albeit still very pale and his voice still very brittle. His voice has changed. Like he’s regained his composure, but in a detached, neutral-sounding way. Gives his lecture. Orders his papers, with immaculate, pristine hands. When he hands over Hermann’s and Friedrich’s essay, he congratulates them, but it’s almost as if he was making his grocery list. Each word of praise scaled and calculated, not a syllabe higher than the next. Hermann was sort of looking forward telling him about that book he read, how he's fascinated by it, how he wants nothing more than to learn everything there is to learn about the topic. But right after class, Brewster heads out, with that blank expression in his eyes. Hermann sees him talk with a fellow teacher, that very afternoon.

It’s von Ubitsch. Karla’s mother. The only reason he’s studying there at all. It's her.

The two of them exchange a glance. He doesn’t have her in class until third year, and they never chat ; he wishes there was a way of thanking her without blowing his cover. There isn’t.

The neurosurgery teacher is there too. When he’s fueled on excitement, he moves his long arms around his torso, in a slightly cephalopodian fashion. Sentences from _the book_ (that one he’s had on his mind for so many days in a row) pop up in his mind, and suddenly he’s there with them, talking with the teacher, almost interrupting the conversation, a conversation between _teachers_ he should have no part in. But he can't help himself. He needs to. Von Ubitsch looks at him sideways, making no attempt at entering the conversation he and the teacher are having – there’s no way to know whether she recognizes him or not. She lets nothing show, just keeps on talking with old Brewster, leaving the two men to their conversation. The neurosurgery professor doesn’t seem to mind either, and joyfully answers everything that comes his way, every naive question from a student who should only talk when spoken to, but can’t seem to keep his mouth shut.

Then the teacher parts from von Ubitsch and Brewster, and heads towards the B wing, the one where his office is (something about papers he needs to gather before his next class). Hermann hesitates for a split second, then falls in step with him. His mind is racing, his veins pumping ; he has no idea what the holy mackerel is going on, but he can’t set his thoughts straight. There’s something about the brain he’s been interested in forever, something about understanding who we are, as a specie and as individuals, that runs deep under his skin. And the teacher is definitely leading him on, by being so patient, so thoughtful in his answers. There’s something one doesn’t get often in Heidelberg – a meaningful, passionate, yet casual conversation with a teacher, and Hermann enjoys every minute of it.

The teacher – Richter, he’s called – offers to lend him some books from his personal shelves ; not that Hermann could ever believe that there are books in this world which can’t be found in the Heidelberg library, but he still accepts the offer, always eager for advice. Richter’s office is in some part of the University he hasn't visited yet ; the heating there is much better than in the remaining areas, and Hermann rubs his hands together, enjoying the warm air like a cat by the chimney.

The door closes behind them. Richter’s smile doesn’t change of a tooth, but it looks different in this light.

“What was I saying ? Yes, _Studien zur forensischen Psychiatrie,_ a classic… We have the 1872 edition available in the library. It can be rather old-fashioned at times, but it’s always a good start. _Über Irrenanstalten und deren Weiter-Entwicklung in Deutschland,_ if you want to go further on the subject – Griesinger has an entirely unique viewpoint on this, and I can’t say we agree on everything, but there you go for your own opinion, my boy.”

 _Irrenanstalten_ ? Asylums ? He knows someone who’d be interested – that conversation he’s had with Jonathan once. The man knows some things about those places, although Hermann didn’t dare to ask how, or when, or why.

“You give them back whenever you’re ready. I have no deadlines – although next year, I definitely will, if I become your teacher. But, I dare say, you seem eager enough to chose my minor as your speciality, right ?” Richter pats the young student on the back in that masculine, you-and-I-are-brothers manner Hermann has gotten used to since he started presenting as a man. There are many doors in the temple of masculinity he hasn’t unlocked, and never wants to unlock, but this, right here ? He'll have it any day. He knows that Richter (or any professor in Heidelberg, for that matter) would never treat a female student in such a respectful and intelligent fashion, and he knows it should bother him, but he pushes the thought to the back of his brain, together with all the ones he's refrained over the years.

Richter lays against his desk, facing Hermann with a smile at the corner of his lips, silent. Hermann guesses he should leave, but the teacher makes no attempt at showing him the door.

“You are a strange child, Hermann,” the man utters out of the blue, and suddenly storming out of the room seems like an extremely good idea. “May I call you Hermann ? It's a nice name, sure enough.  _Soldier,_ it means. Army man. Suits you enough. But I’d still very much like to know your old name, you know.”

No. No, no, no.

No.

No-

But Richter's not going to stop there.

“To hell with those games," he spits. "I’m not here to play around. You may have tricked the old hags of the administration, but trust me, some things you can’t let pass. I know you’re a girl. Or at least- used to be. To what extent you’re a man now, I don’t know- didn’t ask for details.”

Fritz. It has to be. But no, it’s impossible- Wilhelm, maybe. Or Friedrich. Figured it out somehow ? Or Lothar. _Goddamit,_ what if it’s Lothar ? What if-

“What I can’t wrap my mind around is why you would become a man if it makes you a _Schwule_. To get in school, maybe ? You think you could fool people for long ? Someone would have exposed your tricks anyway - better sooner than later. Oh, but you’ve had your little fun, haven’t you ?”

One of Hermann’s shoelaces is broken. Strange thing he hasn’t noticed it before, but he definitely does now, with how hard he’s staring at his feet, trying to burn a hole through the ground and disappear in it.

“Answer me, you scum. Look at me. I can't believe someone like _you_ got into the prestigious Medical School of Heidelberg. For all I know, it could be you who murdered Rudolf, huh ? Figured he knew about you, about you and that faggot friend of yours ? You think you’re so stealth, so innocent ? We’re getting the Earth rid of you all, starting now with this country. Look at me. The party is the only chance we have to achieve that. _Look at me. Why won’t you say anything, whore_ ?”

And Hermann does one thing he’s never done in his life- throws the books Richter lent him to the man’s desk, where they bounce and thump on the floor loudly - and storms out of the room, with a kick in his step he didn’t think he could gather, because how weak his legs have felt through the entire ordeal. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, but he’s definitely no letting it stop him from running, and running, and running all the way to the entrance of the school, where he finally catches his breath, against the cold stone of the exit walls.

He spots Jonathan a second after the young man spots him, but there’s no time for that now- turns his gaze away from Brewster Jr. when he was obviously heading his way, and breaks into another run, as far from this hell of a University as he can, each step bringing him closer to collapse.

 

No need to say, he doesn’t go to school the next day.

Truth be told, he doesn’t even leave his bed. The sheets against his skin are probably the only gentle thing in his life right now, and he’s infinitely grateful for that.

No classes.

No food.

No bandages.

The fabric tightens around his chest – he hasn’t changed the gauze in days, and he’s still supposed to take care of the healing scars of the aftermath, for a couple of weeks at least, but he does nothing – lays – lays – lays there -

No visits.

No talking.

He remembers Jonathan’s irises when they saw each other out of school ; incomprehension. Hermann has been so fascinated by him for the past few months, why would he avoid him now ?

Someone has been calling. The telephone rings every other hour. Fritz it must be. Funny how the tides have turned, huh ? How are the mighty fallen.

Mighty. Has he ever been ?

No letters. Except one – on the third day. He has never seen that handwriting in his life, but it’s not hard to picture it coming from two long arms and a short chest – the curves are large, as if the writer was struggling to fit those letters on paper. He skips the row of insults Richter started the letter with, goes directly to the point : “...You tell me what happened to Rudolf or I’ll make your life miserable. Next time you be careful who you show this body to ; they may talk a little too much, and we listen.”

Oh. Well. That show that Lothar didn’t believe him fully, when he said he was a normal man, and wasn’t really tongue-tied about it. Told someone about Hermann’s peculiarness and that person figured it out, told someone else, probably, who told Richter. At least now Hermann knows why Richter knows ; it’s not because Lothar’s a nazi and told the party everything straight afterwards. He was just a little too loud and carefree, just like Fritz. Just like Hermann himself. Like all of them. How dare they exist in anything but silence ? How dare they be loud when they’re so filthy ? How dare they be them – _how dare they ?_

No classes.

No food.

No bandages.

 

On the seventh day, a second letter comes in. Anonymous, once again.

“Come back to school, we have topics to discuss.”

This isn’t Richter’s handwriting, and Hermann figures he has nothing to lose. He hasn’t managed to shake this feeling of hollow inside his bones for a week, and he’s slowly starting to miss the sunlight on his epidermia.

Some part of him wants to remain locked in here forever, but it is silent, and the other is loud, loud, loud – so he listens. Walks all the way to school, tongue-tied, then crosses the entrance.

Two minutes later, a hand grazes his shoulder. A voice speaks. Not husky like Steiner’s – high.

“You come in here. Let’s talk business.”

It’s von Ubitsch.

 

She sits him down in her office, pours herself a quarter of whiskey (barely flinches when she downs it in one gulp) and then talks.

“My boy, you’re in trouble.”

By then Hermann has registered 945876 scenarios as to how it could go terribly wrong before the beginning of her second sentence.

“So… You’ve gotten yourself in trouble with Richter, have you not ?”

(He nods. Still unsure of where this is going.)

“Well, if I knew it’d get this far without me noticing. Sure thing, you wouldn’t have thought of coming to me for help, but still….” She pours herself another glass, “Richter isn’t the only one paying attention to rumors and whispers, you know.”

Her eyes are piercing when she looks up, but not angry.

“Now, how you could possibly think I didn’t know, I have no idea. Karla’s never had many boy friends to begin with. And she slipped a “she” or two when she introduced you to me, when she told me to accept you in the University. You’re a very talented student, Hermann, and I have always thought so -even if I’m not your teacher yet, I’ve taken a look at your grades- we all think so, even those who don’t know about your… Difference. That is, everyone, except for Richter and me. And don’t you worry for now – he will have kept his mouth shut. The bastard values information power above anything. Even above basic human decency, as it seems.”

Hermann’s lips part to speak for the first time in five minutes – inhales deeply – but von Ubitsch cuts him off. Good thing – he’s so lost he had no idea what he was going to say.

“Save your breath, boy. I’m telling you I’m about to save your career. Your life. Both.”

So he does. Because truth be told, he didn’t understand much of what she’s said. But that “save you”, he understood it alright.

 

“I know how lonely it feels,” she says, (and Hermann thinks that no, she doesn’t, not really, but he’s just so infinitely _grateful_ and he _can’t believe his luck_ so he lets that small disagreement roll by. Maybe, one day, he’ll talk to her about it.) “I know, but there are people who get it, around here. People who understand. Few of them, but they exist. You’ve read Hirschfeld’s book, haven’t you ?” He nods.

“There are people like you, but also people willing to get you a step closer to who you want to be, and to safety, once you are.We don’t always understand everything, but, correct me if I’m wrong, we assume that you do.” And she flashes a sheepish half-smile that doesn’t quite sit on her wrinkled face, but it is still unmistakingly warm. Hermann can’t stop himself.

“Professor, I- Richter, he said-”

“I know what he said, Hermann. And I can’t promise you for sure I’ll be able to stop him from being the repulsive nazi he is, but I can try. Transsexualism is illegal (I’m positive you know that already) but blackmailing is as well, and he’s currently trying to get a promotion ; he’s on the rise, but he has nothing to back him up except for his sorry excuse of a party in case things go wrong. This NSDAP crap won’t be of much help to him, not with their ridiculous results in elections. He won’t risk getting outed as a blackmailer. Not now. But once again, child, I can’t promise you for sure.”

A hand wipes his watering eyes and he reaches out – a hand on hers, trying to convey how it feels to have this burden off his shoulder, how he just _couldn’t breathe_ , saw himself and Fritz and every single queer thing in this country with their heads on the chopping block. How he just wanted this to be over, the fear, the pain, the threats, the night, the fog.

“You’ve tried getting a detective, haven’t you ?”

No. No, he hasn’t. As if there was money for that. He knows it would work, but he’s spent every single one of his Reichmarks in the surgery, and now he’s barely scraping by. He nods, pretends it just didn’t work – changes the subject. Asks her how long she’s known.

“One doesn’t find an endocrinologist _of this kind_ just by roaming the streets, you know.” she says. There’s a smug look in her smile. Said like that, it rings like an evidence. And she goes on, and it sounds more and more obvious at every sentence, and he wonders how it could have escaped him, that she _knew._ How he could congratulate all his successes on luck or the universe or himself, when a handful of them- at least- were from her, and he-

She tells him how she’d come across someone a girl _like him_ during her studies, and had learned a lot about the subject, although the only one she talked about it to was that person (along with a lot of reading in von Hirschfeld’s book) ; how she now knows three or four of his kind in town, all of them either extremely stealth and careful, or completely out of society ; how she figured it out fairly quick when Karla told her about my-friend-wants-to-be-a-boy business ; how his story about the arson in the city hall was weak, but quite believable enough to ring true to other Heidelberg officials, so she let it slip- and his academic records _were_ impressive ; how she kept an eye on him during his studies in school, noticed him hanging out with disreputable-and-somehow-shady-Fritz, and knew it would get the both of them in trouble one day ; how she noticed Richter glaring at him and, putting the pieces together, figured the notably-far-right-Richter was going to make a move ; how she noticed his absence, those last few days, and didn’t let that slip.

(To the only question he asks – whether she knows this Wilhelm he met before the surgery – she answers yes. Well, too bad. The memory he has of the man isn’t so fond. But once again, now is not a time for quarrel. He forgives her the occasional slip-ups, the “wanting to be a boy”, the “became a man”, “biologically a girl”, he forgives her, he has to, just like he did with Fritz, he shrugs, and knows- he has to.)

There’s a way out. There’s a way out of this mess.

“Now, like I said, I can get Richter off your back ; but _just this time_. I mean it. I can’t let him notice me paying special attention to you, and I won’t put my career on the line for you, no matter how talented you are.”

Just like Karla. Bravery and selfishness – you don’t need to be good to do good, or to be selfless to be good. Nobody ever is. She’s proud, and she’s not here for sacrifice. She’s here for giving a hand, helping people out, knowing they may pay her back some day.

But then she leans on the desk and all philosophical reflexion vanishes.

“Listen to me, here. This is very, very serious, young man. When I say ‘just this time’, I mean it. I mean Richter’s going to be breathing on my neck if this is to ever happen again, and I would let you transplant a kidney before I ever let you handle this situation on your own. There won’t be another time. I need you to promise me that. And for now, I need you to do everything in your power to stop Richter from getting anything else on you.”

“Which is to say ?”he gulps.

There it is ; she’s going to ask him something, and he’s not going to like it. He knew it was coming.

“Which is to say if you know anything about that Rüdolf Steiner business you should tell me and tell me now. Because there’s a connexion here, and if even I can sense it, then trust me, so can Professor Richter.” Her tone is ice cold, and there it is, they’ve dropped the monkey business.

“Professor I’m infinitely grateful, but you know as much as I do. My friend...” He swallows hard, then figures von Ubitsch deserves some honesty from him – still, he won’t mention Fritz’s name, but he can tell his story. “… He, he was blackmailed by this man. By Steiner. He’s not like _me_ , not, like, not _female_ (the word hurts to pronounce), but he’s a homosexual.” He talks slowly. Chooses his words wisely. “And Steiner and Richter belong to the same party. That NSDAP everyone whispers about. That’s all I know. My friend didn’t kill Steiner, I’m positive about this. For all I know, the two cases could be unrelated.”

Von Ubitsch nods, even though they both know that last sentence is _highly unlikely._ But she believes him. And right now it’s all that matters.

 

*

 

He didn’t think it would ever happen, but he’s actually in shape for his final exams. Which means he’s able to somehow handle them, even with all the clouds that have been hovering over his head for the past few months. The weather is clearing. It’s been a rough year, but it ends in him hunched over his study books for hours on end by Fritz’s side, both relieved to have no blackmailer over their shoulder, but also terrified of what the future has in store for them.

It is May, and their finals are at the end of the month. The first year is the only one in which they don’t have to do internships in a hospital, which Hermann is infinitely grateful about ; he’s a month behind on his rent because of everything that happened to him and he would like to take advantage of the summer to get some money saved. Germany’s economy has never been better, not since before the War. They’ve gotten the Ruhr back in ‘25, which caused the wind in Germany to blow twice as hard that day, from all the sighs of relief. Sure, most (if not all) of this momentum is foreign-based, but after the nightmare that was the hyperinflation in the first year of the decades, people aren’t going to drop their optimism for so small a detail.

 _So small a detail_. It _is_ a detail, isn’t it ? Sure, there _are_ unemployed people, and quite a lot of them at that – Heidelberg is doing fairly good, but he remembers visiting Berlin a few months back, and seeing all those starving poor devils roaming the streets – but altogether, the country isn’t doing so bad. The German agriculture has just reached its pre-war level, everything is going to be fine, with hard work and confidence. This new Germany the government is building will need doctors, and highly-qualified ones at that. And he’ll be there, in a few years’ time, with a white coat and the entire population behind him.

 

But then something happens. A wink from the high heavens, a divine hand outstretched towards him for a handshake ; he receives a letter from Karla. An answer, actually. (Finally, after almost a year – he’d stopped wishing for an answer), telling him about how she now gives a hand in a farm in Westphalia. It pays good, she says. Doesn’t mention once her lost dream of being a doctor. Says she’s still in contact with Magda, that the girl (a woman, now, she is) is doing good in Freiburg. When she failed the exam, she says she immediately started looking for work, and she says she’s happy now, putting those muscular arms of her to work.

Hermann thinks she’d be happy too on the benches of Heidelberg, but he doesn’t tell her that, when he writes her back. She didn’t mention her lost dream. Not once. So it’s not his to bring up.

She tells him about all this and it doesn’t feel like she’s angry, or bitter, or anything. She tells him about the cows and how she gets up every morning before everyone, how it reminds her of their early morning study sessions.

Once his exam week is over – leaving him exhausted and drowning in a cesspool of coffee and sleep deprivation – he starts thinking about this. Working in a farm. Working with his hands, with his muscles, with his body. His body. His body. He’s never done much with it – apart from this night with Lothar (God he really needs to get in touch with the man again) – apart from how he tests it by denying it sleep and proper nutrition sometimes, apart from that surgery, sure, he-

Yes, he’d like to know how that body feels when put to work. How it can ache and hurt and strain for a good reason, how he can feel each atom of his flesh at the end of the day and know why. Working in a farm. Sure.

Not anywhere near his parents’ town. Sure.

He thinks about Jonathan. About von Ubitsch, about Richter (it’s too early to tell if her plan worked, but he can at least breathe a little easier now), about the corpse in the yard, about Friedrich and Fritz. About Lothar. About the men and the women, the bars and the school. Everything going on, everything finished, all the things that have yet to come, and his hands shake, and he breathes. He breathes.

 

Maybe it’d do him some good to get out of town for some time.

 

*

 

The day his train leaves for Rhenania, Fritz helps him carry his luggage to the train station. They won’t be seeing each other for another two and a half months or so, and Hermann can’t help but admit he’s going to miss his friend some. They both deserve a break, with this dark shadow of threat looming over their heads in school, with all the anonymous letters, all the blonde men and the swastika leaflets ; they both deserve a break, and somehow, in their own manner, they’re both getting one. Fritz, by staying in town, getting ready for a fun summer he’ll probably tell his friend everything about when September comes around. Hermann, by weeks and weeks on end in the countryside, with, as a retribution, scalding hot soup and a warm bed waiting for him at the end of the day. Plus some savings that should help him get by in second year. Pay off his debts. Fresh start.

The boys shake hands awkwardly for a solid five seconds before Fritz pulls Hermann him for a hug. It’s sudden. It’s warm. It’s the most they’ve ever touched each other, and it feels special. Not in a sexual manner – it couldn’t ever be like _that_ between the two of them – but intimate nonetheless. Tears well up in the corner of Hermann’s eyes. God. His chest against Fritz as they hold onto each other ; both flat and _so man-like._ It’s magic. He stares at his friend, dead in the pupils, and tries to express that.

“Thank you,” he finally says, under his breath, like an exhale. “For everything.”

Fritz lets out a small laugh. “What’re you talking about ? We’ll be all over each other’s back in a three months’ time.”

And well, yes. Yes, they will. For better and worse.

That thought accompanies Hermann as the train leaves the station, and afterwards too, as he gazes through the window, his cheek resting on his palm. He can’t feel it happening, but his eyes are drifting out of focus, his mind already somewhere else. Maybe in his hometown. Maybe in Berlin. Maybe he’s alone there, wherever it is. Maybe he’s not.


	8. Nothing expected you to want all of me (but here we are)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are both learning to trust, my stomach inching towards yours,
> 
> drawn to the warmth of diving into you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of this was written since September, since I started working on this story ^^ like the part at the end (no spoilers !) even though it's a bit old, I still liked it a lot so I didn't rewrite it too much !

1928 is the summer he forgets about most of his life, and he never thought it could feel this good. He slowly learns to unclench his fists, let go of the strings, of the ties, at least for now.

1928 is the summer Hermann works, and calluses bloom on his palms. He puts balm on each one of them, but doesn’t flinch when they bleed. Sometimes, he looks at the sunset and feels proud. Sometimes, he looks at the way ahead and feels scared. He tries not to let any of those feelings get to his head, because he knows he has a long day waiting for him in the morning, and he knows that howling, red-haired dog who’s always hanging around the farm won’t let him sleep past sunrise.

On Sunday, he and the family he’s staying with attend church. He hadn’t been anywhere near a holy place since he was 17 or so, and he doesn’t believe in Him// Her// Them// in God, capital G God, not anymore. But he pretends. Back then, he prayed for serum. For change. Now, he prays for everything to turn out alright. For him. For the people he loves. He prays for Richter to drop dead, maybe, or to just see the mistakes of his ways, and apologize to them on bended knees. A little daydreaming has never hurt anyone, he’s come to learn. And the family seems happy to see him such a good Christian boy. They’re nice, all of them. They don’t know his secret. Maybe they wouldn’t be so nice if they did.

1928 is the summer he spends hours on end talking about politics with the farmer’s wife. He’s lucky she sort of agrees with him on most things- he doesn’t stray from safe subjects, won’t display any Commie ideology, but being able to rant about the far-right is already priceless enough as it is. She’s a hell of a clever woman, and she’s kept herself informed much more than him. He ought to start reading the newspaper again, but he’s scared. When he tells him that, she tells him it’ll be time to be scared when the NSDAP gets in power, and before that, it’s no use. Hermann laughs his head off at the thought of those headcases having the majority in the Reichstag.

(When he realizes the farmer suspects his wife and him from having an affair, he stops laughing out loud, but he doesn’t stop the long end-of-the-afternoon conversations with a beer for them both, and the sight of that stupid dog chasing rabbits and never getting to them.)

1928 is also the summer an infection finds its way to his chest, and suddenly he’s not smiling anymore. Those swollen, hot red marks on his scars weren’t there a week ago. He reaches for them (every fiber of his doctor-body telling him not to touch) and notices a bit of pus dripping out. The day after, he’s bedbound by a fever – holds onto him, doesn’t let go for three days and three nights. Each moment he spends conscious enough to speak, he apologizes to the man for not being able to work. God, if there’s one thing he hates more than looking weak, it’s people thinking he overestimated his abilities. He never does. And he intends on proving that- if only the fever could go down just a little, dammit- On the fourth day, he stumbles out of the covers, and drinks an entire bowl of soup. Somehow, it’s an accomplishment. They were on the verge of calling a doctor from the nearest big town, but Hermann kept insisting, telling them not to. I’m a doctor too, he said. Don’t worry. I know what it is I’ve got, and it’ll pass. It does. After a week, he can work again. And the scars begin healing again. And he looks at them every day again, happy to see the red marks fading and fading at each passing sunrise. They’re healing. He wants to thank them, but they’re not doing it for him ; it’s just what his body knows best. Growing.

1928 is the summer he learns a handful of things – how to maneuver an axe, how to saw wood, how to harvest crops (wheat, mostly), how to brew the best beer he’s ever had the pleasure to taste, how to fix a roof, how to sort out the best apples from the rest of the lot. He learns – precision, observation, carefulness, dexterity – skills. And he learns sobriety, too, apart from the beers he occasionally enjoys with the family. No schnapps for three months. God, when was the last time he managed to go this long ? (There might be a slight problem. He’ll take care of it once back in Heidelberg, he tells himself.) He observes, learns, teach his body to obey his mind, teach his mind to listen to his body. And he’s almost positive he should write a book about how farming ought to be mandatory for all surgeons in training.

1928, August 28th, is the day he leaves the farm. Says farewell to everyone, thanks for everything, thank you very much, yes, I would be delighted to work here again. He even kisses the red hair stray dog on the forehead. (Just once.)

And just like that, he’s gone.

  


*

  


Second year sounded way less scary while he was passing his exams, or choosing a specialty. Now he’s lying in bed, awake, at 3 AM, anxious like a child before the first day of middle school, and he feels pathetic, but also like he’s going to pass out of nervousness. Maybe it would let him sleep a little. That’d probably be a good thing.

Maybe Jonathan is going to be there tomorrow. He hasn’t seen him in three damn months.

Maybe his heart just hurts so damn much. It’s like it’s moving all around its body, shaking every other organ to the core, trying to beat its way out, escape this sinking ship of a shell.

His timetable says “plastic surgery”. Of course. As if there was any way in _Hell_ he could chose neurosurgery after- everything that went down a couple of months back.

Maybe Richter has forgotten about him. Maybe he’s just laying low. Three months sounds like a lot of waiting.

Maybe von Ubitsch did her work right. Maybe she sorted everything out like she said she would. Maybe she also lost her career in the attempt. He’ll know tomorrow, he tells himself, but it doesn’t steady his shaking.

Maybe everything is going to fall apart again the moment he steps out of bed.

It served him right, this time out of town. He hadn’t been out of Heidelberg for a year or so. (He doesn’t count the day he spent in his hometown – there’s no way in Hell he ever will-) He breathed some air who didn’t taste full of people, got everything off his back. A day at a time. Surprisingly, it’s out there, with heavy bags of flour on his shoulder, that he felt the lightest.

It’s a very simple memory. Specific. A moment he stole and kept in his front pocket ; the warm July sunset on his skin after a much-needed bath in the river. He was toying the fabric of a shirt they lent him, enjoying a simulacre of health, a couple of weeks after the fever went down, and he was finally able to work again. His muscles ached. His chest ached. Even his heart, yet he felt so beautiful.

And now it’s like the radio waves are in tune again, and he can’t hear anything else. Maybe it’s the pumping blood in his veins, maybe the busy nightlife of Heidelberg out his window. He’s fairly certain he’s just heard a glass shatter.

He falls asleep, his mind lost in the sound.

*

Fritz drags him into a messy hug the moment he steps in.

Well, not _exactly_ the moment he’s in school. He waits for the two of them to be relatively alone, and then holds him against his own body like they haven’t seen each other in months. Which they have. Haven’t.

That’s the moment Hermann notices how small Fritz is. Or how tall he’s himself, he couldn’t say. He always saw his friend as a towering shadow over him, and now his chin rests on the other man’s shoulder, and it feels wrong. Strange. But life is strange, perhaps.

He doesn’t know if it’s the serum, or if he’s just learnt to stand straighter over the years, hold his chin up. He doesn’t know, and he’s not planning in figuring it out any time soon. So he just holds his friend against him, closing his eyes. He’s missed human connection. God, he’s missed it so much. The other man has a smile at the corner of his lips, that just won’t leave, and they both know it means something.

What it means – as it turns out – is that Fritz has met someone.

He’s a detective, he says. Met him while he was looking for a way out of this blackmail situation. As it seems, some detectives are specialized in finding the blackmailers and taking care of them, legally or not. You just have to know the right numbers and addresses. And he’s also a Sinto man, which is highly unusual – it’s not Berlin here, and Hermann catches himself wondering whether he’s ever met someone like that. But there is enough light in Fritz’ eyes to brighten up the entire school, so he assumes he knows what he’s doing. And after all, most people haven’t met anyone like _himself,_ either.

“He’s a true German,” Fritz says, and Hermann’s not entirely sure what it means, but it sounds like a good thing. The man lost an arm in the war – he’s almost thirty years old, which is reasonably older than his lover, but well. Which battle, Hermann asks, matter-of-factly ?

Verdun, Fritz says.

Ah, Hermann says, trying his best to pretend that he wasn’t expecting it to be the first battle of Champaigne. Pretend it’s not the same old ghost looming over his shoulder every time someone brings up the war.

But some people lost more than he did (all he left behind was a brother and any hope of communication with his parents)– their life, their soul, their limbs. He’s trying hard to remember that.

What’s his name, Hermann asks ?

Johannes, Fritz says. And there is that light again in his irises, which Hermann could swear he’s seen somewhere before. On another man, maybe at the bar, maybe in the pictures- maybe it’s just the look of love.

Neither of them wants to, but they talk about Richter. No, they haven’t seen him around, lately. Neither of them says it, but they’re both terrified he’s been murdered too. It would be bad, _bad_ business. The police has finally forgotten about the Steiner case ; five months is a lot of time for policemen to stay in a University, and the school staff was beginning to get impatient. _It disturbs the learning environment_ , they said, in a conversation Fritz overheard. ( _Eavesdropped_ , probably. He’s just that kind of nosy guy.) Sure, there was also the aspect of whether the reputation of Heidelberg’s Medical School would be tarnished. But so far, it hasn’t been debated much, not outside the school’s inner circles. A handful of headlines in the local rag, and that’s it. It seems that the administration weighed the pros and cons, and figured that it was nothing they couldn’t handle on their own. There’s no way it’s the first “scandal” of the sort to happen there, and so far, the school has been doing great through each and every one of them.

It doesn’t mean that people don’t remember him, the handsome young man with the piercing brown eyes and the dimples . It doesn’t mean his little Nazi comrades haven’t grown somewhat tense, and angry, and violent, and that they’re not hissing threats at people whenever they think no one’s looking at them. More disturbing, though, is the knowledge that recently, more people have been joining their ranks. There are new faces each week, handing out leaflets in front of school – the exact same smile in all of their mouths. They’re not just NSDAP ones, though. This one may be the most troublesome, but there isn’t any shortage of far-right microparties in Germany at the moment.

Hermann’s starting to regret ever coming back, but it’s not like he got much of a choice.

His first class of the semester is plastic surgery. He sits down, gets ready for what will most likely be a basic introduction. As he remembers that he probably knows more about it than would be expected of a rookie, he smiles ; thinks to himself that he could share a thing or two to the class about how scars heal, and about the most common infection. Ha. Yeah.That’s a lie. He couldn’t share it, even if he wanted to. He’s walking on eggs, still, and laying low low low – von Ubitsch told him loud and clear that she would never get him out of trouble again. That’s what he does, to the best of his ability, and he dares not look at anyone in the eyes while heading to his next class, especially not Richter’s little friends.

But running into someone head first is probably a way to get in trouble.

The books he was holding fall to the floor, and he represses the insult that almost escapes his mouth ; he should have been more careful, he’ll agree on that. And just in case the person he collided with was one of those newly-converted-far-right-headcases…

But they’re not. He recognizes the shoes instantly. Shiny, leather, expensive ones, but with trousers which look like they’ve been bought just for the sake of being black and somehow fitting.

Jonathan Brewster looks down at him, and Hermann doesn’t know what the other man sees, but he knows he probably won’t like it.

By now, there’s a full history of encounters with the man where Hermann thought he’d done something wrong, and he wanted to apologize, but he didn’t know how, and he messed up, because the man was just never any _willing_ to communicate, for God’s sake – he doesn’t know how to justify the fact that they haven’t talked to each other in five months, and sure, Hermann’s missed him _a lot_ (some nights, in the farm, more than others) but he also knows he’s going to need a fire-proof explanation for this.

That’s why he rushes out his first sentence -

“Hey, Jonathan, ( _the ‘Johnny’ is repressed in time, thanks God)_ there you are, I’ve been meaning to talk to you forever, just came back to town, you know, have been away, what are you up to, you have some time, maybe-”

\- it’s because he expects the young Brewster to interrupt him instantly. He doesn’t expect raised fists and white knuckles, because he’d run _like Hell_ if Jonathan was to ever raise a finger on him ; but he does expect a cold face and Laconic sentences. He does expect their bond to have shrunk back to what it was when they first met- indifference. He does expect Jonathan to have built up the walls he’d done his best to walk past ever since they started talking.

But Jonathan doesn’t interrupt him.

Jonathan’s eyes aren’t cold. His face isn’t shut, his brows aren’t brought together in a frown. He looks _pleased._

 _Goddamnit_ , he looks pleased, pleased to see Hermann. Eager to tell him everything he’s been up to. And sure, Hermann’s not a pro at reading Jonathan’s face (no one is) but it sure as hell looks like it. _Holy mackerel._

“… So, well, that’s it. I’ve just been- working. And you ? Do you… Do you want to go talk somewhere ?”

Jonathan nods, and just like that, a ton is lifted off Hermann’s shoulders.

*

They end up on the deck of the Neckar River, just like they did on New Year’s Eve. Jonathan isn’t smoking this time. His hands are still, laid on the guardrail, and he’s not saying anything. None of them are poets, Hermann knows that, but right now, he’d very much like to write stanzas about the way the waves of the water pool inside of Jonathan’s eyes. (He doesn’t.)

It’s Jonathan who speaks first. “I’ve moved out. Been living not far from your flat, you know.”

“You left Brewster’s house ?”

“Yes,” the tall man replies. “In July, or something. It’d just been the safest place to be – it used to. Now I’ve… Changed my mind. My plans.”

Hermann does remember what he heard on that night they spent in town, back in January. _In two months at most I’ll be gone._ Turns out he hasn’t. Not that Hermann complains, of course. “Change in plans happen all the time, I guess. You’ll just have to follow the flow. At least, I did.”

“So you’ve dropped that Neurosurgery project of yours, haven’t you ?” The man is surprisingly well informed. Hermann’s surprised he even remembers that.

“Settled on it last minute, but yes, I’ve taken Plastic surgery instead.”

“Has something to do with the teacher, maybe ?” Jonathan takes his gaze away from the river and looks at him. His sentences aren’t cold or aggressive. It’s just his way of communicating. It’ll have to do.

“Maybe.” And avoiding slippery slopes is Hermann’s way of communicating. “ _The dead man’s seat_ , you call it in your country, right ? (his English is rough around the edges, after so much time without practice.) The teacher, that Richter man, he was close to- to Rüdolf Steiner. The student who was murdered. And he’s been laying low ever since. That can’t possibly be good news. So, yeah. Try to avoid this bird of ill omen.”

To some extent, Hermann’s making stuff up, pretending those are the reasons he avoids Richter. But in some incomplete way, it’s also true ; even if it wasn’t for this _I blackmail you and I want you dead_ business, he’d still be careful around the man. There’s just something inexpressible about him that makes you want to trust him and also tells you it’s a terrible idea.

“Steiner was his name ? I’d forgotten.” Two things make Hermann turn his head : Jonathan has spoken low – almost a whisper, but not quite – and he’s still talking in Goethe’s language. Usually, he would have switched to English by now.

“You knew him ? I mean, apart from the occasional leafleting he did ?”

Jonathan doesn’t answer. Instead, he sits on the concrete, lays his back against the guardrail.

When he finally speaks, his voice sounds like the one he had on that night where Hermann bandaged his wounds. It’s pleading. It’s hurt. It’s terrifying, that’s what it is.

“We shouldn’t be talking about it, Hermann.” His voice isn’t quivering, but it’s not loud, either.

_We shouldn’t be talking about it. What the hell._

_Have they ever talked about something they were supposed to discuss ?_

“Jonathan, have you-”

And then he knows. But he’s known all this time, ever since he learnt about the murder. He’s known, and there’s no way it could have been anyone else. But he didn’t want this. He wanted it to be about the blackmail, to be about Richter. He didn’t want- Jonathan, he-

And then it’s Hermann’s turn to speak softly. “It’s you, right ?”

The man still doesn’t answer. But he’d been tapping frenetically on his knee with his fingers and just then, he stops.

It sounds like a yes.

But what does it mean, exactly ? What does it mean for the future ? For him ? For them ? For Fritz, and the other students in school ? What are the motives ? What exactly does Steiner know ? Why did Jonathan do this ? Why did Jonathan do this ? Why did he _do this_ , god damn ?

“Brewster understood a week after the _case_. But he’d been suspicious the whole time. He can’t turn me in, not without putting his entire career in jeopardy, but he’s doing his very best to lock me in the nuthouse this time.”

Oh _God_. And Hermann was so focused on his own little _fucking_ problems, worrying about _Jonathan I-killed-a-fucking-man Brewster_ scorning him. Thinking he’d _fucking_ remember that one time Hermann ignored him three fucking months ago. Goddamit. He doesn’t know why he’s angry, or who he’s angry at, but he knows he is, and he knows he _fucking, fucking_ hates it.

“And you- you have- some sort of a plan ? What are- why did- _why_ , Johnny ?”

The nickname escaped him, and for a second he regrets it. But Jonathan doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care to correct him. (He likes it, he thinks. The way it sounds on his tongue. Intimate.)

“It’s not about this, Hermann. It’s not about- it’s not about me. Well, it is. But not about my choices. It’s about all of us. And God, I hate that us. _Us_ as in the Brewster family. Us as in the people I’ve been running away from my whole life. Fighting, too. Got a black eye or two for some of them. Hermann, that Steiner, he was the scum of the earth and you know it. But why ? You can’t ask why. Some things you don’t know. You just don’t know them. And the reason there’s no reason to your action – that’s the only why you need.”

Some more silence. And he resumes. With a pained face, as always when he’s telling something/ anything/ about himself.

“There’s something wrong with people like me. Well. Maybe not wrong. But there’s- absences. Anger. Like alcohol, but always. Something that keeps me away from my body.” His fingernails dig in the wooden guardrail. It’s slight, but it doesn’t escape Hermann’s eyes. “Sometimes it’s background noise. Sometimes not so much.” And there his voice drops to whispering again. “You’ve seen me in… In some of those times.”

Yes. Yes, he has. He remembers, vivid as an hallucination– Jonathan going all the way to his apartment for bandages, and refusing to tell him what happened. Refusing to go to the hospital. He remembers.

“You did them to yourself ?” But it’s impossible. Those were violent blows. Those were savage, mad. Attempting to hurt. You can’t wish for that on yourself. That’s impossible.

“No, it’s not… It’s… well, yes. It was me. It was my hand, but it wasn’t me, telling it to act. Just this knife of mine, and digging in my skin, and… When I saw what happened I immediately thought of you. I don’t know why. You seemed...”

 _Safe_ , Hermann instantly thinks, but he figures it’s too much of a word for Jonathan to say. Still, he understood. And he watches Jonathan take out a knife from his belt and toy with it, absent-minded. But he’s not afraid. He knows the man knows what he’s doing. After everything Jonathan has confessed in the last five minutes (more than in the few months they’ve known each other) he still trusts him. Maybe he’s crazy, too.

“This thing, it’s been there my whole life. You’d notice too, if you’d grown up like me… Insanity runs in my family. It practically gallops. I’ll cut its legs off, then.” And his grip on the knife tightens.

It’s funny, in life, how some things are statistically impossible, but happen. This situation right here is a good example. How could they find themselves here ? How could this mess of a man and of a medicine student could stand here, listening to a guy his age, telling him his darkest secret, even though they haven’t talked in five months ?

Jonathan must have prepared this. There’s no way he hasn’t. He must have spent all those weeks weighing his options, figuring out what to tell Hermann, what no to tell him.

Jonathan’s muttering. “I’ve got to get out of here. It’s a matter of weeks now. I have my own place, but he’ll- he could find me. I know that. I’ve got to get out of the country. There are… This man. This Adolf something. Steiner just wouldn’t shut the fuck up about him, when he tried chatting me into coming to his stupid meetings. He’s dangerous. They both are. Well, Steiner’s not much of a threat to anyone anymore, but… This mustached fanatic, I’d kill him too, I could.”

He repeats it. Those last few words. _If I could. If I could._ But now the only thing under his hands is his knife and his own body, and to hell if Hermann’s going to let the two of them have any interaction again.

“Jonathan, it’s… You can’t… Why are you telling me this ? Why do you even trust me ?”

He shouldn’t ask this, he knows he shouldn’t, but it’s just dripping out of his vocal chords – _why, why,_ he’s been trying to achieve this kind of intimacy with Jonathan for months now and when he least expects it, he… A smile gets to the man’s lips, and then to his eyes, and it’s a cold September morning, but Hermann has never seen so much light by the river.

“You didn’t chose neurosurgery. You could have. You’re gifted. But you didn’t. I saw how invested in it you were. You didn’t try much to conceal it. Yet, yet you didn’t chose it. That man Richter, he was… He didn’t _care_ about people who were _sick in the mind_ , like he said. He wanted us all locked up so he could dissect our brains and write other fancy books. He didn’t care. None of them do. We’re in a dark, dark land, with a population of millions, and they’re all- looking down at us. ( _fists tighten around the handle._ ) They say _crazy_ , they say _lunatic_ , they say _freak_. They mean _not us_. And they’re not all like me. That’s the worse part. I, I’m a monster but- I’ve seen so much of us who’re just _different_ , but not _dangerous_ , not to anything but their fucking stupid statu quo. They would never harm anyone, not more than the next person. It’s repulsive, the way they just- I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it, how he looks at us like any other animal...”

It takes him a few seconds and a couple of deep breaths, but he regains his composure.

“… But you didn’t. You chose something else. You’re not like them. I know it. You don’t look at me like they do. Maybe you- maybe you know some of it. Of what it’s like. To not be like them. I’ll rot in hell, that’s a given, and I won’t do anything to think I deserve a happy life, but you- you’re not like me, but you’re not like them either.”

Right now, more than anything, Hermann’s staring at his shoes. He can’t stand the thought of Jonathan thinking he chose plastic surgery _only_ because of his own ethical views on the current teaching of neurosciences. Hell, he was more than willing to go down Richter’s path. God. He can’t stand it.

“I know who you think I am,” he says, once he’s sure that Jonathan is done talking, “but it’s not the whole story. You know that, don’t you ? Things can be right and still you’ll be missing half of the picture.” He finally gathers up the nerve to look at Jonathan in the eye. “He blackmailed me, Jonathan. Herr Richter. He blackmailed me just like Steiner had done for my friend.” Then it hits him- the realization that maybe _Jonathan didn’t know about the blackmail._ Shit. “You- you knew that, didn’t you ?”

“About Steiner ? Yes, I did. Well… I didn’t know the guy was your friend. I don’t even know his name. And it didn’t help paint Steiner in a good light for me- convinced me one more time that the man didn’t deserve to live. And he didn’t. I still think that. It doesn’t mean it was me who… _Entirely_ me who...” He shivers. “...did that to him. It was… Something. Something in those bones. No- well it was me. Of course it was. But if I’d been in my right mind-” he chuckles, as if the thought of something as silly as _a right mind_ was laughable “- I wouldn’t have done it. Not this way. Not… I… I won’t go to the nuthouse- will off myself before I ever get there- but it doesn’t mean I won’t pay, you know.”

It’s just a little too much for Hermann to process.

Everything. All of it. The realization that he _knew_ the entire time that Jonathan was the culprit, yet for some reason it just didn’t print. The knowledge he’s standing a feet away from someone who’s maimed a young man with acid. The perplexity about where Jonathan’s morals stand in this- whether they exist at all, and whether Steiner’s political actions were involved in the choice of victim. Jonathan says they do. But do they ?

God, there’s definitely a headache coming. But he can’t back off. Not now.

“He blackmailed me, Richter.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying it again. To set the tides, maybe. A secret for a secret. A life for a life. “He blackmailed me because I- like men.”

Then there’s silence, and Jonathan doesn’t even seem to be listening. He stares at the handle of the knife. Maybe it’s the same one he did those- things on his chest with. Maybe his mind is already miles away, somewhere in which he can be alone with himself for the rest of his life. Hurt no one but his own skin. Would he like that ? Would he deserve that ?

“I knew. You told me on New Year.”

“Did I ?”

“Sort of. I put the pieces together.”

Of all the parts of this conversation that went wrong, of all the topics Hermann thought would end up in blood and tears, this one wound up surprisingly well. It’s like it’s not even a matter of discussion. It’s only a matter of small talk to Jonathan, and therefore a very boring one, as it seems, because his eyes have drifted off to the river. He closes them, from time to time. Hermann wonders what he’s thinking about, but he’s just too scared it’ll be anything but him. Jonathan’s looking at the river. Maybe he’s thinking of the sea.

They’ve both had enough weight on their words for one day, he can tell. Whatever is happening, he doesn’t want to shatter it with too long a conversation, and truth be told, he really needs to process that with a meal and a hot bath at home.

“I’ll see you around, Jonathan.”

The man doesn’t answer.

“And… Thank you. For everything. All you said.”

“Anytime.”

And they ought to laugh, because it’s so obvious a lie it’s almost funny, but strangely enough, none of them does.

*

Hermann spinned into his head their next interaction, almost scripted it a thousand times in his mind, trying to imagine how it would go, what he would do, what they would say ; and no matter the amount of times he mentally rehearsed it, he always pictured it happening in school. But how often do things actually go according to plan ?

The next time they see each other isn’t in University. Nor is it in any of the many, many places they’d already seen each other in-

no, the next time they see each other is in a bar.

 _The bar_ , more specifically.

Hermann wasn’t especially keen on visiting that bar again, not after the blackmail _incident_ , not after what happened with Lothar, what the man figured out, what he told others. Too afraid to find out what exactly it was people saw him as – what monster they thought he was naked.

But he wanted so bad to change his mind. It’s been three days since the talk with Jonathan and his mind hasn’t been anywhere else, not ever since he learned about what happened to Steiner, not ever since he learned what it was that went on in Jonathan’s head. Mechanically, he puts on his coat, his hat, puts some perfume in his neck, and leaves the apartment. The air still has that lingering smell of summer, of heat and dampness, but it’s going away. Fall is coming back.

Fritz isn’t at the bar, that night. Actually, they haven’t gone out together in ages- since before Hermann slept with Lothar (by the way, thanks God, thanks _God_ , Lothar isn’t there either, that night. Hermann could feel himself choking at the thought of bumping into him).

As it seems, Fritz is too busy those days with his new sweetheart. Good for the both of them. It’s less likely to get beaten up by the police or driven to suicide when you’re loving someone behind closed doors. As far as Hermann knows.

That night, the first person Hermann “knows” he sees in the bar is Wilhelm.

This bar begins to sound more and more like a magnet of some sort, driving all the people in his life together. Well, “people in his life”. Sure. As if that scumbag had any place in Hermann’s life .They’ve only ever talked once and it ended up in Hermann storming out of the apartment (with in his hand the address of the surgeon he came there for, sure, but storming out nonetheless).

They stare at each other for a few seconds. Wilhelm obviously takes longer in recognizing him than Hermann did, and this timespan is long enough for Hermann to get _incredibly_ offended (how dare Wilhelm not remember that short medicine student he talked to once in his life more than eight months ago ? how dare him ?) and short enough for the outcome of the situation to be obvious :

They need to talk to each other now.

Wilhelm greets him without mentioning his interlocutor’s name (surely he doesn’t remember it), and with that tone of scorn he had the last time they saw each other. Hermann decides he still hates him. That’s good. He pretends to care, tries to force a smile- but this time the older man has nothing to give him, and he has no reason to hide the contempt he has for a man who hates Jews and loves the military and think the both of them are sick in the mind for being who they are.

Needless to say, Wilhelm catches on those bad vibes, and the situation (the both of them in a bar, next to the entrance, one awkwardly trying to pursue the conversation because he’s trying to be polite and still doesn’t remember the medicine student’s name, the other boiling in the inside) gets somewhat tense.

After a few minutes, Hermann even gets angry. Angry because there’s so much he keeps silent every single day, that when he has an opportunity to take it out on someone, he does. Furthermore, it’s not like Wilhelm’s exempt of fault.

And truth be told, Wilhelm doesn’t really want to stay, either ; he would have left the conversation ten minutes ago, really, but now that this short no-one is almost insulting him for a reason he doesn’t even remember, no, he can’t back out. He’s started duels for less than this, and the scars on his face testify for their outcome.

It ends up in the both of them arguing and trying to hear each other (or their own voices, at least) over the loud chatter of the bar, and the results aren’t impressive. Hermann knows the situation is getting out of hand (he came here to relieve himself from stress, and this right now is clearly _not_ relaxing) but he does nothing to stop it, not when he finally has an opportunity to be angry and to be loud without fearing… Well, murder. Or exclusion from society. He’s always had to be quiet about who he was, but even more so now that he’s barely gotten Richter off his back. And he’s tired of walking on eggshells.

“And you’re a pretentious, bigoted asshole unable to see past his damn fucking nose-“

“You tone down now, kiddo, or I’ll show you how your kind must behave-“

“My kind politely tells you to fuck off and to never dare utter a stupid fucking opinion of yours again-“

“You’d never even be half a man if it weren’t for me-“

“I’ve always been a man, and ten times more than you, you piece of shit-“

A handful of clients are looking at them (but not so many of them ; fights are common in this place and hour, even if they’re usually fueled more by alcohol than by political opinions- this time, it’s a bit of both, but mostly the latter.) Someone even stands up to stop them before they begin punching each other, because with his fist raised and his knuckles clenched white, Hermann sure looks close.

But a hand lands on his shoulder before he gets a chance to make a move, and tells the watcheres to go mind their own damn fucking business.

Both men look at the apparition.

One doesn’t have any idea who the hell this is ;

The other most certainly does.

“Now you leave the damn bar before I find out what the hell it was all about,” growls Jonathan Brewster to a very pale, unpoised Wilhelm, “because I promise you I won’t be so damn kind once I do.”

Wilhelm seems on the verge of countering the insult and picking a fight, but he looks at Jonathan’s tense muscles on his forearm (the man’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his veins are most certainly apparent, and it is most certainly not a good sign), curses under his breath, shoves Hermann in the shoulder and leaves, heading not for the exit, but for another part of the bar, where he joins what seems to be his friends, thus marking the end of their glorious second encounter.

But Hermann couldn’t care less. Jonathan is here. _Jonathan is here_ , in this hole of perdition. And Jonathan just intervened to help him.

Oh my God, _Jonathan is here._

“Fancy a beer ?” he asks, taking a handful of bills from his pocket.

Yes. Yes, he does.

  


“Who’s that man ?” Jonathan asks, once they’ve both sat down on some table in a corner of the bar.

Hermann’s’ most positive there are more important topics to discuss at this moment. Like _damn what is he doing here he likes men he likes men right that’s what it means oh my God_ – formulated correctly, it ends up like this :

“I had no idea you came to this kind of bar.” With a slight blush to his cheeks that he doesn’t entirely manage to conceal, no matter his efforts.

But it’s alright ; a smile reaches Jonathan’s lips almost instantly, and he also tries to hide it under his glass of beer – without much result.

“Well, I do,” he says. “From times to times. I can’t always be somewhere tearing my life to pieces, you know.”

It’s not exactly funny, but Hermann feels that he’s supposed to laugh, so he does. “And that’s where you come to keep your life together, then ? Did someone tell you it was against the law ?”

For a second he’s worried that he’s outstep Jonathan’s good mood, but the man doesn’t seem to mind. “Clearly the most harmless illegal act I’ve performed,” he snickers, “and the most pleasurable, too.”

Something pools down in Hermann’s stomach. Was it- That, right there, was it-

Nevermind. He tries to pull himself together : “You didn’t tell me you were… like me.”

Jonathan shrugs. “Didn’t I tell you enough about me the other day ?”

That feeling he had earlier- he needs to be sure. “Well, I’m fairly certain there’ll always be more I’d like to know,” and he looks straight at the other man’s eyes, “if you care to show me.”

An uncomfortable silence stretches by, as they both sip quietly at their beer. He knew it. He misinterpreted the signs- mistook Jonathan’s openness for _flirting_ , and now he’s made a fool of himself with that _pathetic_ attempt, God, how could he… Until he looks up and notice Jonathan hasn’t taken his eyes off him since they stopped talking.

“So I repeat my question- who’s this man ?” Thanks God, Jonathan has changed the subject.

“He’s… Someone I met a couple of months ago. An asshole. Good to know there are scumbags even among people like us. Makes me feel more _normal._ ” Hermann shakes his head.

“What do you mean, normal ?”

“ _Normal_ like _I’m not that much of a freak_ , and it feels good, sometimes.” Whoops. Wrong answer. But it’s too late when Hermann realizes his mistake- _freak_ , Jonathan hates the word. He told him earlier, didn’t he ? Oh _God_ , will he just keep fucking up like that every time they see each other ? “I mean- I just want to-“

“I won’t say I get it,” Jonathan interrupts, “but maybe I do. Used to, at least. But is this really what you want ?” He motions to the outside of the bar, where people often stop and stare, occasionally throwing insults (or _rocks)_ at the people inside. “To be a part of this ?”

“No, not necessarily, but-“ he sighs, and once again there’s a tremendous weight on his shoulders, “-it’s not just about liking men. It’s about- everything about me being _too much._ ”

Now he’s said too much or too little. But it’s just like this night, the first time he saw Fritz in that bar ; he can’t back out now. The flames are licking at his hands, but he has no choice but to jump through the fire.

Jonathan got it perfectly. He doesn’t speak- just quirks an eyebrow, and waits. Waits. Waits, for a development.

“This man and I, we’re… A different brand of man. Everyone tells us we’re not, but we know we are. Just like you do. Just like every other man does.” He tastes bile in his throat. “They tell us we’re women, but we know better.”

Jonathan was in the middle of drinking his glass, but freezes mid-air. Now is when it comes- the intrusive questions, the disgust, the repulsion… He’s been lucky enough so far to be accepted by most of the people he cares about (Karla, Magda, and Fritz, to be honest) but also unlucky enough to get a preview of what the rest of the world would feel like, confronted to a revelation such as this one.

He waits for the hangman to cut his head off, but the blow doesn’t come.

“I- Oh. Didn’t expect that.” He finishes the drink he was holding, then shakes his head, lost in his thoughts, before talking again. “You sure are peculiar.”

His eyes look up and down Hermann’s upper body, as if looking for something he never knew was there ; it’s uncomfortable, but so far, it’s going better than in Hermann’s wildest dreams, so he won’t complain. He lets his features imprint on Jonathan’s retina, lets the young man look at him – _really_ look at him.

Right now, it’s not a penny he’d give for Jonathan’s thoughts. It’s a million.

The young Brewster stares at his glass for a couple of seconds, as if wanting to say something, but not knowing if it’s right, or if it’s accurate.

Then he stares up. “So you’re a man ?”

“Yes,” Hermann says.

“Ok,” Jonathan says.

And with that, they’ve switched to English.

  


They talk.

They talk, and it’s never been so peaceful.

New Year’s Eve was a bit like this, sure, but it felt fleeting to Hermann- dream-like. He knew it’d vanish in the morning. He knew it was nothing short of a miracle, and expected the illusion to shatter at each of his blink, amazed all over again every time it didn’t. But now, he knows that Jonathan will be there in the morning. And the morning after that. And for at least a fair amount of the mornings to come. He knows there are so many things they haven’t gotten the time to tell each other yet, and he knows they have all the time in the world, at least until Jonathan leaves. He knows infinity won’t get cut short before that ; it’s like every time they talk he gets a new shot at life, each time they’re brand new people, but part of themselves recognize each other.

But there’s also something else building up. A heartache that wasn’t there before. When Jonathan’s knee graze his own under the tables, when their eyes lock for too many seconds, shaking Hermann’s lungs to the core. It isn’t the beer. Hermann’s never been so sober in his entire life.

When they’re both done with their drinks, they don’t order another. They lay their hands on the table, eyes down, lips locked, not talking. Until something covers his hand. Jonathan’s hand didn’t tiptoe towards his own, didn’t dare destiny by touching his slowly, one finger by one finger. He just moved his palm in the other man’s direction and caught Hermann’s wrist with a firm grip.

None of them is moving.

Jonathan’s hands on his aren’t graceful, aren’t soft, but they aren’t violent either – had they been, he would have ran away in an instant. He’s known too many hard knuckles in his life for him to be willing to experience any more. He knows what the other man is offering, and it isn’t violence – it isn’t an order. Hermann wants this, God, he does, he does so _bad_ , but he also wants it to be _good_ , and to be safe. Of course, there is trust. There is always trust, between the two of them, especially recently, but usually, there is also a screeching voice in his ribcage begging for a flight or fight, and this night, the voice is silent.

He’s wanted this so bad, for so long, and _so_ often. When staring at Jonathan’s naked torso that night they went to his apartment. When roaming the streets at five A.M on New Year. Whenever they grazed each other’s skin, whenever their eyes met, this fire pooled at the surface of his epidermia and down to the bottom of his stomach. He wants. He doesn’t need to, but he wants, God, he _wants-_

He takes the hand, doesn’t let go. They both get up on their feet and head out of the bar, the cold of the air getting to his head instantly when they step outside. He can hardly see anything apart from Jonathan’s large back before him, his too-tall silhouette lined up in a dark grey suit as always ; but what he does manage to see is the bright sign of a disreputable hotel twenty feet from there, and he knows where it is they are heading. Maybe he’s known all along. When they first talked after the dissection, or for New Year, or during the corpse crisis. Maybe he’s been waiting there all this time – it feels like a _déjà-vu_ , this scenery, him handing out a couple of bucks (two days worth of salary, but he couldn’t care less) to the owner of the hotel, him walking up the stairs and locking the door behind the two of them.

They both fall on the bed almost instantly afterwards.

He’s been there before, with Lothar. But the lights were off, and they were both hurried and frantic and not clumsy, not exactly, but they both cared more about what they were doing and how, than about who they were doing it with. But now, it’s Jonathan he has hovering over him, and the lights are dim, but they’re on, and he’s naked, and Jonathan sees him, all of him, all the parts he never thought he was allowed to love.

And Hermann has never felt so much in ownership of his body, through every single one of his limbs. And no, he hasn’t been there before. Not even with Lothar, this electricity jostling through each of his muscle. On top of him is that riddle of a man he’s known for almost a year, and under him, it’s himself, Hermann.

God, this body of his, and all the other things Jonathan has touched without immediately destroying them ; God, his knuckles ; God, his eyelids ; his knees ; his shoulders- his hips, like the guns Jonathan keeps in the front pocket of his coat. And it's right then, with Jonathan's large battle-worn hands holding tight on his thighs (because the man can _sense_ that in this light, dysphoria won't let the slightest touch to Hermann's hips go unnoticed) it's there that he understands.

He gets that Jonathan's fingers touch only to destroy the object or use it to destroy something else, and Hermann doesn't know which one it is for him. He wonders if maybe he’s some sort of alien, of exception. He tries to sort it out in the way Jonathan's stubble keep grazing against the scars on his chest, in the way Jonathan's feet push on his ankles, just how Jonathan's torso keeps him pinned to the creaking mattress. He thinks about Jonathan's words and Jonathan's actions, if it is love or anything but, if it is care or lack thereof.

He stops thinking.

*

“He had blond hair.”

Jonathan grumbles, turns around in his sleep.

“The corpse in the woods. He had blond hair – on the part of his skull that was still there. And he was tall. Way taller than Eugen ever was.”

Hermann knows the other man is awake, even though he stays silent.

“He wasn't my brother. He was just some random casualty that happened to die just next to my hometown. For years I thought that he was, but – now I know that he wasn't. Eugen didn’t even die in this area. Why the hell did it take me so long ?”

“Does it matter ?” Jonathan's voice is cold, a bit rough, but fully awake, and fully attentive.

“No. No, it doesn't.”

Still, Hermann's smiling. He doesn't really know why, but he's definitely smiling. He closes back his eyes, slipping himself into the cold darkness of the room.


	9. Do not leave footprints (a breeze through everyone's hair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not just that you go, it's that you refuse to believe it matters.

Imagine it as the happy childhood you’ve never had.

As a birthday cake topped with love and warm hugs. A happy celebration with none of the silence of your house.

A happy celebration, with a brother by your side, alive and well. (Not the corpse in the forest. Definitely not the corpse in the forest.)

Picture it as the whole twenty-two birthdays you’ve had between shut mouths and locked doors.

And now look at him. Well, good, long. Look at him.

Today you’re 23, and you’re small, and tall, and a giant, much more than you’ve ever been. And he’s here, with you.

Lean forward, over the bottle of cheap pseudo-champagne he brought you.

Capture his lips with yours.

  


Jonathan is _everywhere_.

God, Hermann can’t even fucking believe he used to go weeks, months on end without seeing the guy ; that at some point he counted himself lucky when he could smile at him from across the corridor two or three times a week.

Now he gets so much more, and it’s taken his whole life by storm, and he understands nothing of what is happening. But neither of them is going to let go ; at least, not until real life catches up with them, and shatters this illusion of a relationship. _Gott verdammt,_ Hermann much prefers the nights he sleeps on Jonathan’s chest than the ones spent overthinking about this.

It’s the best he’s ever had.

The rest is still there, but like radio static ; he still talks to Fritz after class, still greets von Ubitsch when they cross path in the corridors, both afraid that life will get real for the two of them, he still avoids Professor Richter’s eyes, still has conversations with Friedrich, from time to time – notably on that project on herpes they’re supposed to finish by the end of the semester. All of it is there, but it’s also very much _gone_ , every time Jonathan comes over and they talk and they eat and they fuck and they look, silently, by the window, in the most comfortable silence he’s ever had the luck to lay into.

When he woke up, after that night in the hotel, it took him a solid two hours to remember where he was, or what had happened. It felt like those nights where you think you woke up, but it was only the scenery of your dream changing ; and you spend minutes trying to figure out what’s real and what isn’t, while still being asleep. It felt like the dozens of times you tell yourself _I’m awake,_ _it is real, it is real_ _,_ while still being deep buried in Morpheus’ arms. Had he really slept with Jonathan Brewster ? Was it real ? Had _this_ happened ? What about _this_? And _that ?_

The lights came pouring through the window and he didn’t even _dare_ look at his side, to see whether Jonathan was there, by fear the answer would be negative. _Please be there. Please be there,_ he whispered. A thousand times he tried to convince himself to look, but chickened out last second.

Then he finally did. And the man was there, and he was asleep, and he was beautiful.

They talked, later in the morning, when Jonathan finally woke up. (Definitely not a morning person, Hermann notes. He writes it down at the very top of his brand new “list of things I’ll find out by being intimate with Jonathan Brewster”, and he hopes the list will fill in soon.) It was the _elephant in the room_ situation he was most afraid of, but there was none ; not a single pachyderm dared poke its nose in their conversation. They had had difficult conversations before, and this one was not among them. Hermann had half-expected a “no strings attached” kind of proposal, at best, and a “let’s forget any of this happened” at worst.

Boy was he surprised.

Sure, neither of them were very fond of the typical relationship type you see portrayed in movies – it’s between a _man and a woman_ , first and foremost, and they were far enough from this template to not submit themselves to the rest of the rules. But still. What Jonathan offered him was _something_.

That very morning, on common agreement – and after a roughly twenty-minutes long conversation – they officially became lovers ; or significant others, if you will.

To be honest, it didn’t change much. They couldn’t tell anybody (not that Jonathan was very keen on that) ; couldn’t hold hands or do anything in public ; _wouldn’t_ call each other cute names, buy each other things, introduce each others to their parents. How was a relationship such as this one even supposed to work ? Who was supposed to earn a living wage, who was supposed to care about jewelry, who was shallow and who was strong ?

They didn’t figure it out that day, but they did kiss a lot, back at Hermann’s apartment ; and it was enough.

  


It’s like the entire world keeps spinning around them, and there’s nothing Hermann can do to stop it.

He sees it shift and change each passing day, and feels so _foreign_ to it all, whenever he’s in Johnny’s (the nickname now rolls off his tongue much more easily) company ; while, and at the same time, being desperately anchored in his times. After all, they still spend most of their time talking, and debating, and arguing (the moments of kisses and hushes and soft hands are rare and will probably remain so), and in those conversations of theirs, there is a lot of room left for _what the hell is going on in this shithole of a continent_.

_They_ also take up a lot of space in their conversations.

On many occasions, he’s heard _them_ call themselves the 2%, and he knows it’s supposed to be a title of esteem, how they pride themselves in being those lucky few who got to see the light ; but the low number still displays the opinion of the population on them – disinterest. No one even knew their name five years ago. And six months ago, all they managed to scrape was 12 seats in the Reichstag. Their leader – the one who was in prison for this disastrous coup a couple of years ago – even wrote another book, that no one, to Hermann’s knowledge, has read.

But they’re here, sure enough, and they’re not leaving, like Hermann first thought. People are starting to pay attention to them, and people have reasons for that. People are angry. People hate the Young Plan. People are scared. People are also extremely anti-Semitic, and luckily enough he’s able to hide his origins – if one grandfather can be considered an _origin_ – so as to avoid confrontation. But this hate is still there, mostly in little things, parts of sentences he overhears multiple times a day ; _at least the Jews won’t get that cake_ , or _the Jews will come for you if you don’t clean your room_ , or even those tags on some shops – they’re in Bayern, after all, homeland of this party. Maybe it’s not much (that’s what Jonathan keeps repeating) but all those words, they amount to something – and that something is not going to be pretty when it explodes. He’s heard of a gunfight at a _Rotfront_ gathering two months ago, and he fears both for the political future of the communists, and for the lives of the civilians who find themselves at the wrong place at the wrong time. (More than once, he’s caught himself looking over his shoulder at night, in search of uniforms looming under the streetlamps.) Days after, the NSDAP even stormed inside the KPD Headquarters, an operation which ended in a harmless gunfire exchange, according to the press. But then again, the media don’t want to frighten the citizens, and seem to tone-police everything.

When Jonathan and he talk, the future seems bright and terrifying at once. Often, they’re here, sitting on his bed, by the window, looking at the city roofs stretching themselves down to the horizon. Sometimes, they’re there, at Jonathan’s dingy, ill-lit apartment ; it’s so tidy it gives Hermann stomach cramps, to him, who prides himself in always keeping his place _just the right amount of messy._ When they talk, it’s not only a matter of protests, and votes, and the crumbling economy. It’s also the past, their lives, their memories, their dreams, their hopes ; Jonathan doesn’t have a lot of hopes, but he does have a lot of memories, and he tells some of them to Hermann (distilled, drop by drop, over many late-night conversations). They barely see each other in the University now ; always in the streets, or in either of their flats. Jonathan, he still disappears a lot – will sometimes storm out of the room, or go off radar for a few days, but he’ll always be back, and sometimes, _sometimes,_ he’ll tell Hermann where he’s going first.

The wounds are also rarer, and less serious. Whenever he gets new ones, he refuses to tell Hermann whether they’re self-inflicted or not. Usually, from the angle, the depth, and the look on Jonathan’s face when he comes home, the young medicine student can guess. He cleans them, bandages them, and from times to times dares a kiss on the other man’s lips, like an embrace.

Whenever he has to leave their haven to attend classes, it feels like travelling, like he’s going to another country, in which language he’s not totally fluent. He used to. But now it’s a strain on his tongue, and everyone except Fritz keeps acting like he’s the same person. Like he hasn’t had Jonathan Brewster at his fingertips.

  


First, he hesitates in telling his friend about his new affair ; but after all, Fritz has told him about his lovebird, and if he doesn’t trust him with his, he won’t ever be able to open up to anyone, and it’s a bit too depressing an idea. So one day, during a Plastic Surgery lecture, he tells him.

(It’s an interesting enough class, but nothing could stop a determined Hermann from telling a story that has been burning his tongue for two weeks now. And furthermore, he can’t deny he’s been more than a little disappointed to find out that it wasn’t teaching him as much about his fields of interest than he first thought. It’s the end of October, they’ve been attending school for more than a month, and they haven’t talked about sexual biology _once_. Let alone artificial hormone treatments. _Utterly shocking,_ Hermann seethed at Fritz a few days ago, only to be met with a wild laugh, that Hermann didn’t entirely understand.)

So yes, he tells him. He tells him about the bed. About the words. About the kisses. How they feel, how they look. No, not everything ; but he tells him most of it, the outside of it, everything skin-deep. The rest, he keeps to himself.

Fritz has been telling him about this Johannes of his for weeks, and would sometimes tease Hermann about finding a boyfriend for himself ; they never mention Lothar’s name, though, because they both know it would soon bring Richter’s in the conversation, and they would both rather avoid that. Avoid remembering that no matter how sweet the bed, how soft the lips of the lover they invite for the night, the threat of society is still there, still able to make itself known in the worst ways possible. And maybe they deserve some rest, a trip to a far-away land in which they can pretend their love is normal, accepted, legal.

Hermann mentions Jonathan’s first name at the very end of his tale ; it doesn’t ring any bell to Fritz, at least until he hears the last, and he gasps :

“Brewster ? As in _professor Brewster_? What is he ? A cousin once-removed or something ?”

“No. He’s… He’s his grandson. Remember, that taciturn guy who helped during the dissection last year ? Who handed the gloves ? I don’t think we knew each other back then, but… after class, we talked. And… That’s about it.”

The questions come pouring afterwards, in Fritz’s hushed and excited tone, the one he only uses when he’s really, _really_ interested in something. This time, they’re more careful, and weigh every word before saying it, always making sure they check their surroundings beforehand – in the end, they only earn a handful of angry looks from the other students, the ones who actually would like to listen to the lecture.

_Who is he ?_ Fritz asks.  _How did you grow close ? Did you see each other a lot ? Were you at his house this summer ? Where does he comes from ? How does he call you ?_

_Do you love him ?_

Hermann looks at him in shock and disbelief for a solid five seconds. He can’t believe his friend would ask something like that, let alone it being one of his first questions. _Love_. It’s not that he excludes this possibility – no, Jonathan has too much of an empire on him to respond with blanket denials – but… it’s too categorized. Too easy. Sure, Fritz has almost immediately called the thing between he and Johannes by its _scientific_ names, but it’s different. Fritz always wants order, wants names on things, wants things clear and settled ; he’ll spend hours on end looking for a specific word, never accept a single _on the tip of my tongue._ But in this city, in this world, they’re both very much aware that love is only for men and women, who can take credit in being born in _acceptable_ bodies for their sex. They’ve never been told they could love – never really wanted it either. Shrugged it off, settled for something at their reach ; affection, respect, friendship, intimacy, fondness, you name it ; but Hermann’s not sure he wants love. It means too much and too little. He’d rather have each of the pieces that compose it, have all the little moments it allows someone, everything between them, without having to pack it up in one sole, terrifying concept. He doesn’t _love_. He _cares_. He _prefers_. He _chooses_. And maybe it’s worth even more.

“I don’t know,” he tells Fritz. And they both know what it means.

After class, he has an hour for lunch, which he uses to work with Friedrich on that project of theirs. They’ve become good at this. They write in the same style, have the same method ; a surgeon’s touch to dissect a subject, even one as boring and lifeless as this one, and don’t let go until they’ve reached its core. And this afternoon, they do, after almost ten days of work. The plan they’ve mapped out on paper is _perfect_ , and they’ve got most of the rest figured out, too. They look up from their scattered sheets in awe, smile at each other over their _Käsespätzle_.

“ _Gott vertammt_ , that sure was a pain in the ass.” Friedrich’s yawn drags and drags as he stretches on his chair, legs stiffened by their three hours of stillness ; they both stand up and leave the restaurant, heading for the first class of the afternoon, with Professor Brewster. “That’s why they don’t let much chicks attend this school ; they wouldn’t keep up with the pace.”

Hermann waits for him to chuckle, but he doesn’t. He’s not joking ; not even treating it as a _bon mot_ , a nice joke you can tell in front of your friends to bond over masculinity. No, he’s stating a fact. A scientific fact. Something cold drips down Hermann’s spine as they enter the amphitheater.

He keeps on, “… and I’ve known a handful of girls who wanted to be surgeons, you know. They weren’t bad, but… It’s not the same thing, you know.” They sit down on the benches, Brewster starts his lecture, and Hermann doesn’t remember how to breathe.

He’s about to say something – anything, ranging from “I’ll kick your manly ass with my girly legs until you take that out, coward” to “how am I supposed to even be surprised by this”, including “how can it be that of all the people I told my secret to, Maga, Karla, her mother, Fritz, Jonathan - none of them had this rhetoric – the one I’d expect from any sane person in this society ?”.

But then he spots Brewster looking at him from the corner of his eye, and he starts taking note, maybe pushing on his quill just a little too hard. Thankfully, Friedrich is distracted enough not to notice, and they can both start listening to the lecture of the day. (And Gott verdammt, their elbows are touching, but Hermann could swear he’s never felt so far removed from someone in his entire life. In that very moment, he’s positive he’s closer to his brother than to Friedrich, and the realization sinks in his guts. Learn to swallow it, he tells himself ; it may be the first time you taste it, but it certainly won’t be the last.)

When he gazes up again, five minutes later, from the many sheets which cover his part of the bench, he meets Brewster’s eyes instantly. It is not anger he reads there, as he first thought, the altogether understandable anger of a professor interrupted during his speech. But fear. God, it’s fear.

Brewster is afraid again, and for a second Hermann forgets Friedrich, and the slurs, and the discomfort, and the frustration, and himself ; he knows he’s seen that terror in the professor’s eye, right after the murder, and as much as he’d like to pretend this has nothing to do with Jonathan, every single neuron of his brain is telling him that it has.

*

At he and his lover’s next rendez-vous, the matter is clearly not among their priorities ; they almost instantly fall on the bed, kisses clumsy and ravenous, and they haven’t seen each other in days and they’re both as hungry for this as if they’d gone without food for that long. Hermann barely has time to close the curtains before being drawn back to his lover’s starving fingers ; needless to say, there’s no room in his brain for Jonathan’s grandfather’s unsettled looks.

 _I’ll tell him later_ , he repeats to himself a grand total of _five_ times, and considering how utterly distracting the entire being of Jonathan Brewster is, he counts that as a win.

  


He knows he shouldn’t be staring, but he can’t stop himself.

 _It’s understandable, when you have someone so beautiful hanging half-naked around your room. I’m flesh and blood_ , he tells himself. But he knows it’s not quite true. That apart from the smooth lines of Jonathan’s back muscles, from the soft curve of his shoulders, the unruly locks in the back of his neck, as the man makes himself some coffee (he must think Hermann is asleep ; after all it’s 1 A.M, and he has class in the morning) there’s something else his eyes can’t help but drift to.

He’s starting to know Jonathan’s chest by heart – he’s seen it up close enough times by now – but his back is still something of a foreign land to him, apart from the knowledge he got of it by clinging to it with his nails. He sees every scar, every mark, every red line and dark circle on the blemish skin, and he wants to erase them all with his lips… He wants to ask whether it hurts. Ask where he got them, why there are new ones appearing every now and then. He wants to ask whether they hurt when they were made – for how long they strained, and if there are angles at which Jonathan can’t sleep without cringes of pain distorting his face. He wants to ask whether they hurt, and what he can do about it, but instead he just lays there, pop-eyes wide open, and cling on the sheets as if they were skin. His skin. He loves those sheets, he does, but, by being so white and immaculate, they’re reminding him of how few places on Jonathan’s body are left unwounded, and it’s not a pleasant thought.

Jonathan comes back to bed with two steaming cups of coffee, sits on the edge, lays a hand on Hermann’s bare shoulder. It’s not a terrific idea, coffee so late, but anyway, with such a man in the room, there’s no way Hermann could fall asleep.

“We’ve never talked about my body”, Hermann says, without really being sure why he’s bringing the subject now. No, they haven’t. No, but how could it be a bad thing ?

“What is there to discuss ?”

Hermann frowns. “You know that. Pretending I’m just like the rest of you won’t make the rest of the world think so.”

The man seems to think this through for a few seconds, then shrugs. “I guess so.” His expression says that the matter is of little relevance to him, and that he’d much rather be devouring his lover’s neck at the moment, but Hermann won’t drop the subject so easily.

“You’ve been with other men before, haven’t you ?” Jonathan nods. “Was it different ?” He nods again. “You’d rather have me be like them, don’t you ?” This time, it’s a no. Still a silent one. And Hermann snaps- in German, which clearly indicates how angry he is.

“ _Scheisse_ , Johnny, you can’t just pretend it doesn’t matter. It’s everything the world will ever see me as, if they knew. I could get killed. I could get fired. Hell, we could- we could both get killed. Don’t you think there are enough reasons for them to want us dead already ? Aren’t you ever afraid ? How could you lo- how could you accept settling for…” And he sits up in bed, bringing his legs against his chest, in a pathetic attempt at hiding himself, resting his chin on his knees- “…this ?”

There’s a loud silence afterwards. All Hermann can hear is the pounding of his heart, sending his ribcage bouncing against his knees. The other times… The other times, the pleasure was great enough to overcome the shame and anger he feels towards himself, towards his body – some days he can’t remember which is which, or whether they’re even supposed to be separate at all – but this time, it’s too much. For so many reasons. For so many years. When he looks at Jonathan, sometimes it’s too- everything he’s not, everything he’s wanted to be- a real man, a skinny man – he’s not built like most of his comrades in his department – it feels overwhelming, like a divine punishment – it feels unfair. As soon as he gives himself time to think, the hate crawls back under his bones, and it threatens to swallow him whole. He doesn’t want… whatever is going on with Jonathan to stop, but he doesn’t want to be fighting the darkness alone.

Jonathan’s voice is soft.

“I like this.” And he touches Hermann’s elbow, where the young man has brought it around his knees. “And this, too.” And his fingers reach for Hermann’s earlobe. “I like this man’s knees. This man’s shoulders. This man’s hair.” His hand grazes a lock on Hermann’s forehead. “I love this man’s face. This man’s elbows, this man’s arms.” He sits closer, leans towards him. “I love this man’s stomach, this man’s chest.” He touches the scars, careful to avoid the places where they’re still swollen. “I love this man’s legs. This man’s hips, this man’s voice, this man’s neck-“ five fingers around the place where an Adam’s apple should be- “and this man’s body. I love it against me, and before me.”

That’s all he says before they go back to kissing, and Hermann’s heart slowly steadies back to normal, his arms unravelling around his knees, and they’re back in bed, making a mess of the sheets once again, the twin coffee cups going cold on the table.

  


It doesn’t settle everything, but Hermann notices himself sitting a little straighter, the day after.

  


But those are the good days. And the bad ones never fail to make themselves known ; three days after that night, Brewster asks to talk to him after class.

The questions rush to Hermann’s brain. What could it be this time ? Did he notice something about the testosterone ? About the surgery ? Does he want to see Hermann’s birth certificate ? God, fucking hell, did Richter tell him something ? Please let it not be about Richter-

The moment the door closes and it’s just the two of them, Brewster catches his right arm and doesn’t let go, the urge in his voice underlined with fear.

“Where is he ? I know you’ve been seeing him. Tell me, where is he ?”

Hermann tries to shake himself free, without success.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Herr Brewster-“

“Don’t you dare play me, Hermann. Where is he ? This is a matter of life and death, so where in the holy son of God is he ?”

Hermann’s frozen.

“God. He… He hasn’t left the country, has he ?”

Brewster’s nervous grip tightens around his sleeve like a claw. Like a terrified, lost old man who is starting to get a rather precise idea of who his grandson is.

“No. Jonathan, he- I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let go of me, please. Herr Brewster, let-“

His interlocutor’s eyes are cold when he meets them again. “How do you know his name, Hermann, then ?”

Checkmate.

“I’ve seen you two. I know he… I told him I’d lock him up if he dared leave this house. If I can’t have an eye on him, he- he’s done this before. I know he’s gone out of hand, and right after that terrible murder in the University, he disappears. But- but I’ve seen you. You share glances, and he looks at you in the eye even when he’s not talking to you. God, I hope you know what you’re doing, son, because I, for one, don’t have the slightest idea.”

So, denial won’t work. Great. Which attitude is there left ? Confidence ? Reassurance ?

“I fail to see how any of this, how the death of Steiner, relates to me in any way.” He lies bad, he knows that. Glues his eyes to the floor.

“If you think you know Jonathan because you’ve just happened to spend some time with him in the last few… God, I don’t know, weeks, months, then you’re mistaken, young man. I thought you a better doctor than this. You… I at least hope you know what he did in March ?”

He can only assume he means the Steiner case. God, when has it ever been about anything else ?

“Yes.” There’s not much else he can say. Experience taught him he’s not in a position of power, here. And when walking on eggs, the least you can do is not break in a sprint. But as soon as he’s figured out a tactic, Brewster’s expression breaks into something entirely different.

“’Yes’ ? That’s it. So- you really have _no idea_ , then ? You’re so young, and you’re ready to willingly get yourself in this mess ? When I’ve been stuck in it since as soon as this bastard could talk ? He wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes as a kid. Avoided long sentences. I swear, try to build yourself a career with a _Gott verdammt_ half-monster at home. And one with my genes in his organism, at that. What could I do apart from crossing an ocean, to get as far as possible from him ? Huh ?”

He lets go of Hermann, start pacing the room, nervousness in each of his steps.

“But the damn fool got in trouble back home, of course. Eighteen years old, and almost a wanted man in New York- and what does he do ? What does he do, to further finish ruining my life ? He shows up in this country, joins an old friend of his, he says, and crashes at my house, half-“ He pauses, lips dry, licks them quickly, swallowing hard “-threatening me, says he’ll tell everyone about Martha, the acid-“

There his voice dies, and he looks at Hermann like he just noticed he was there.

“So let me tell you. This demon of a kid- _Scheisse_ , 19 years of Hell on Earth- he’ll drag you with him, and with me ! Is that what you want ? A young man like you, with endless possibilities before him, going to jail, or worse- and me, you think I deserve it ? I’m not-“ (another pause) “-perfect, sure, but-“

Hermann figures it’s high time to cut him off.

“Understood, Herr Brewster, then ; we’re playing honest. You say I know where he is. Maybe I do. There, I’ve just made a step in your direction ; now, you care to tell me what you’ll do with him, _if_ you find him ?”

His sentence is not even finished that Brewster is already chuckling uncontrollably, fighting through the spams to form full sentences.

“Why, he’ll get in a damn nuthouse where he belongs ! He killed a man, Hermann ! And one like Steiner ! A good student, extroverted, athletic, interested in politics ! Imagine yourself looking at Rüdolf, and stabbing him in the chest _eight times_ !”

Right now, he’s doing his best to ignore his personal feelings about Steiner (that the fucker had it coming, that he well deserved his end) so he can focus on what Brewster is saying. He remembers the terror in Jonathan’s eyes, the one time they dealt with this subject ; he remembers what he read about asylums, too- but would jail be any better ? He wants to answer something cunning and witty to Brewster, but (the thought alone is horrible) he has nothing to say. No arguments. Because what the old man is saying is true. Jonathan is a threat. And he has killed someone. So why ? Why is he defending him ?

This sick thing in Johnny’s head, maybe it could be fixed ? Surgery ? Medications ?

But why would he have a second chance, he of all people ? When the asylums are crowded with poor devils, left there to rot, and who may be suffering just as much as he is ?

What if he kills other people ? Not fascists, not scum- but people ? Citizens ?

What if he kills Her-

Brewster noticed him doubting, and is taking every advantage of it.

“I know you’re sensible. And I know how persuasive he can be- what he does to get what he wants. But please, young man, tell me where he is. Even if it was only about me, I wouldn’t want to carry the burden of his crimes ; but you, you’re… You’re not involved. Not too deep. Not yet. So please, tell me where he is.”

A shoulder jostles against another, and Hermann storms out of the room, his heart in his throat, before he does something he’ll end up regretting.

  


Then it’s the end of the afternoon, and he’s exiting a long, tremendously boring class on the history of polio treatments. It must be fate -or karma- that even though most of his classes are fascinating, the University kept the most boring of them all for the moments when he just hit rock bottom, and _really_ needs an interesting class so he doesn’t throw himself out the window. He’s had before a _n_ _exhaustive_ _list of the effects of that entirely-unknown bacteria on the_ _kidney_ _of the mountain goat ;_ today, it was _the evolution in the treatment of polio all through the 19_ _th_ _and 20_ _th_ _century._ He takes a deep breath outside the amphiteater, then heads to the closest windowsill to sit on it, in a desperate attempt to relax. Damn, right now, his mind couldn’t be any further from his studies.

He came to Heidelberg wishing to become a surgeon. To show them, to all of them, that he was worth something. Not because he was a man, even though none of them believed him on that point ; but because he was good at this. He still thinks he is.

He came to Heidelberg more than a year ago, and can hardly find time to focus on his studies more than a month at a time, before the real world systematically comes back to bite him.

God, he’s tired.

He does love Fritz, and he loves knowing there’s an entire community out there, of people like him, some hiding, some not, but all of them afraid and wonderful. He does love the changes happening on his body, and how he’s stepping more and more into his own skin at every shot. He does. He does love his studies, and what he’s doing – and he’s still aching for the day he can finally call himself a graduate – and he does love people kissing and touching him, and he does love Jonathan, God, he does, but…

He closes his eyes, tries to put his thoughts back in order. To-do-list : tell Jonathan about the conversation with his grandfather. Find another job- the other one, he quit it before leaving for the farm, after yet another tantrum the boss threw at him. And write back to Karla.

His eyes are shut so tight his head is starting to hurt, but he can’t for the life of him open them up.

God, he’s _tired_.

*

“Jonathan.”

His full name makes the young man turns his head. He was scrambling through his files, as Hermann made lunch at his apartment, and seemed so deep in thought it takes him a few minutes to come back to normal. Hermann never really understood what Jonathan did in his free time, which people he met with, what on Earth he was always busy planning, sometimes until late in the night. He’s not sure there’s a cut-and-dried answer to those questions. He’s not sure Jonathan knows what he’s doing. It’s not his favorite conversation topic, to say the least. The man did mention a few legally reprehensible deeds, over the course of their conversations during the last few months, and a guy named Ernst, but not much more. Hermann’s not positive he’s interested in knowing more.

“Jonathan. I talked to your grandfather. Well… He talked to me after class.”

Now he has the man’s full attention.

“ _Scheisse_. (It’s Jonathan’s last word in German before he starts ranting in Shakespeare’s tongue. Well. Not that Shakespeare has ever used those words in any of his plays.) That damn bastard, he- won’t leave me the Hell alone, and now he’s gotten to fucking investigate on me, won’t let anything slip by, that fucking-“

“Jonathan,” Hermann says for the first time, and he rarely interrupts Jonathan, but he had to. “Jonathan. You… You _killed_ someone.”

They’re both silent for a couple of seconds. That’s not the best conversation-starter ever.

“He told me that, and- I’d never really- realized it. I can feel it’s a terrible idea to tell you that now, but I need to. Jonathan, I need to know why I would trust you.”

“You can’t.”

That’s when it dawns on Hermann, that things have changed. Their conversation is quiet. Their conversation is mature, is organized, is... it is a normal way to communicate. No one is escaping the topic, no one is avoiding it.

“You can’t, but… Steiner, you know who he was. And sure. I wasn’t- I wasn’t _me_ when I… When I did what I did. But he still damn deserved to die, and I’m not coming back on that one. I wouldn’t ever hurt anyone else ; I’d rather cut my own fucking hand than do it.”

He turns his gaze towards Hermann.

“When things start getting bad, I hide. I won’t let anyone see me like this- not even you. I won’t let anything get destroyed in the process. Especially not you.”

And just like that, Hermann has the answer to that question that popped in his brain when Jonathan and he first became lovers ; what the man’s plans with him were, what he was trying to do, and whether he would ever regret waiting for the storm by such an instable man’s side. Now he knows he doesn’t. Now he knows he-

“Hermann, I deserve whatever bad comes my way – if Steiner’s minions come to me for revenge, I’ll do what has to be done. But those institutions, I can’t- (he struggles for breath once, twice) I’ve heard about them. I know about them. They’re- over there, they do-“

Hermann doesn’t say anything. He can’t. The words _he killed someone he killed someone_ overcrowd his brain, and he can’t think straight when he’s like that.

“Is there anything I can do ?” he whispers, half-hoping for an answer.

Jonathan doesn’t even bother to shake his head, but the message is clear ; and Hermann is left to stare at the man’s shaking figure, with how lonely he looks on that chair.

*

A job. A job, so he can get away a little from Jonathan’s smothering sphere. A job, the second thing on his to-do list. No matter how shitty, no matter how bad the paycheck. His landlady’s been nice enough to him after months of almost always being late for rent ; now she just seems on the edge of kicking him out, and he _can’t have that_.

It’s in a hospital, he tells himself, so he can feel better about being paid to clean floors. He figures he should count himself lucky to even find a job so quickly. Things will get better soon, the politicians say. Talk about a plan called Young, to relieve the stress of the paybacks. Soon the French won’t be bleeding the country dry anymore. So they say.

It’s an important hospital, the one he applies to. Most of his teachers at University work there as a side job, as surgeons, practicians, etc. It could help him find work opportunities, to say he worked in this hospital, no matter what he actually did there.

When he overhears _operation_ and _polio_ _myelitis_ , he immediately pays attention.

The doctors there, they like him. He’s had a good share of conversations with most of them, being the surgeon in training that he is ; he’s clever, presents well, and has a charming smile he knows how to use. What they don’t know is, when they talk, he pays attention. All while pretending he’s not having Karla’s smiles flashing in his mind.

It feels just a touch too good to be true. But after all these years, Hermann came to one conclusion : luck gets offended when one refuses its gifts _. Yes,_ _this is_ _totally_ _scientific_. (And his relationship with Jonathan played a significant part in him reaching that conclusion).

So as soon as the information is in his hands, he acts. He’s been hired a little less than two weeks ago, and with the semester at school barely starting, and unpaid bills towering over his desk, he should probably be laying low. Not doing anything that could get him fired. But now is not the time to back away.

So he finds himself _oh-_ _that’s_ _-a-pity_ selected for a night shift, and, _by sheer_ _altruism_ , he convinces the director to lend him the keys so he doesn’t need the guardian to stay late. “I’ll handle it on my own,” he says. Had he been anything but astonishingly punctual and effective since the beginning, he’d been answered a clear-cut “no” ; but sheepish smiles and waif eyes and soft faces get one very far, and for the first time, Hermann blesses Nature’s odd choice of chromosomes for him.

It’s only while he’s rummaging through the folders on the surgeon’s desk that he fully realizes it ; that what he’s doing is, no more no less, exactly what Karla did to him two years back. Cheap for the giving end, life-changing for the receiving one. The only price to pay is emotional ; for her, it had been the aching realization that Hermann would succeed where she failed ; for him, the thrilling risk of, maybe, getting his ass fired for reading confidential files he wasn’t even supposed to lay his hands on.

“Karla von Ubitsch”, one of the files says. The first three on the top of the pile are much more detailed, and he can spot a small mention “urgent”, underlined twice. It’s almost too good to be true. Mentally thanking the course on polio he reluctantly attended a few days ago, he gathers every single thing he knows, and starts completing Karla’s file.

Details. Ideas. Not exactly lies, but exaggerations. He embroiders from what’s written there, and what he knows of Karla’s state – until the prose looks flowery enough to be a case study in one of the medicine magazines they give away at the library (and that never fails, by their extravagance, to give students a good laugh.)

Then, an “urgent” on the cover. As well-imitated as he can manage.

It won’t work. Not in a thousand years ; it’s impossible. He would’ve laughed at anyone that would’ve told him it was a good plan. But… Maybe. Possibly ?

He makes a mental note to check on Karla some time next week. With a bit of luck, he’s just managed to pay back some of the terrible debt he has to her.

  


Two days go by, and so far, no one has noticed anything ; he still has his heart in his throat every time someone at work calls his name, but he’ll survive. His letter for Karla is in the mail, and he imagines it making its way all the way to where she lives, hoping to God she hasn’t moved out in the last few months.

Now it’s off his mind, he has other businesses to attend to ; Jonathan’s growing uneasiness, for starters. He’s noticed the way Jonathan looks when he thinks no one’s looking – not that many people look at him anyway. But his _lover_ ’s scared. He’s unsure. He’s weighing his options, and Hermann sure wishes he could be one of those options. But he knows he’s not.

  


Today is the 1st of December, 1928, and Jonathan and Hermann are walking really quick up some street in the center of the city ; he doesn’t know the name of the alley, because he spends little time there, preferring by far the surroundings of the University and its suburbs. They’re going to a _protest_. He never thought he would attend one, let alone in Jonathan’s company, but there he is, and there they are, and it feels right, somehow. Can distract the two of them from the ton of conversations they need to have together, and the ton of self-introspection they need to have on themselves. Politics. Large-scale stuff. Seems safe enough.

They blend themselves in the procession, unsure as to what exactly they’re supposed to do. Hermann’s not sure about Jonathan, but (and he won’t admit it out loud) it’s the first time he goes to something like this. It’s a communist one, which would by far be the political party he most agrees with ; he’d heard of that protest the week before, when a lanky, jumpy youth asked him for a cig and then proceeded to tell him everything about the event.

He wanted to try it out, which is another bullet in the foot of his younger self, always telling himself he’d never be part of something bigger than him, by fear of losing himself. _Shut up,_ he repeats in his mind, to oppose those intrusive thoughts. _It’s nothing like I thought back then. It’s not a Nazi rally. It’s not an army. This is not brainwash. I’m choosing my own path for the country I want to live in, and I won’t stand by and do nothing. Shut up._

He reaches for Jonathan’s hand once or twice, but always takes it back, terrified of what will happen. It’s a communist protest, sure, but this is not an utopian place, and the real world always manages to creep inside even the best of places, if only through the judging side glance of a passerby.

They walk for hours, start settling in the pace. Hermann doesn’t recognize anyone in the crowd, and that’s a good thing. He wouldn’t want anyone spotting him among those… _Red_. They don’t have the best of press in Heidelberg. Jonathan and Hermann are still reluctant to repeat the slogans, but they’re both feeling the electricity of the crowd, and it’s getting to their heads. Once or twice, he casts a side glance at his lover ; the man looks way more intense and optimistic than usual, and Hermann’s starting to congratulate himself on attending the protest today. They need to anchor themselves more in the society they live in, or they’ll be buried underneath it.

It’s two-third way through the protest that the cops arrive.

It’s five minutes afterwards that the beating starts.

None of them say anything in the face of this pain – sure, one of them is much more used to those fights – but they both keep their mouth shut and try to protect what can be protected. _Fight or flight_. Right now, they’re doing neither. They only maintain eye contact, try not to lose each other in the crowd.

They walk as in a dream, out of this crowd, of this street, trying to-

  


The car ride back is silent.

Not because they don’t have tings to tell each other, because of course they do ; but it would seem unholy and profane to say them now, in such a small space, after another godforsaken day of being reminded that Germany is not a viable option for either of them. Hermann scratches his skin, digging his fingernails in the back of his hand, trying to even out his breaths. He’s been doing that recently, to cope with the stress. It works. Sometimes. The protest went bad. OK. He’ll get over it. God. He _wanted_ so bad to believe it could work. That there was something they could do to make their country better.

Hermann makes many attempts at starting a conversation, but finds himself facing a wall every time. Jonathan tries to play it light, to smile, to answer, but it never lasts more than a handful of sentences.

Jonathan drives past Hermann’s building, and keeps on for a couple of minutes, just so that no one notices that stolen car just in front of his building. Eventually, he comes to a stop, pushing on the brakes with that haphazard, violent driving style of his, and Hermann opens the door and walks out.

There they stay for two, three, four seconds, staring at each other through the rear window, none of them really knowing what to say.

“You… want to come to my place ?” Hermann whispers. But Jonathan shakes his head. Maybe it’s for the best. They’ve had more than their share of trouble today.

“Think I’ll just head to mine. Plus...” His face breaks into a small smile, which is better than nothing, sure, but God does it mean what it means, this sad grin on Jonathan Brewster’s pale face. “… I don’t want to leave the car in the streets. It might be against the law.”

And just like that, they part ways.

  


They talk, for the next couple of days. Spend more time together than ever before. Hermann has a free week to study for his exams, and, well, maybe he should spend more time in the library and less in Jonathan’s arms, but right now, it’s not an option.

They talk about the protest. About the communists. About the NSDAP. About the police. About all those who were injured that day (and two killed). A protest was held at the same time in Berlin, Jonathan says, when they finally can get hold of a newspaper – 32 victims, it mentions. It says most of them were communists. It says there was a clash between the two, and- it didn’t end well. Not for the activists, nor for the civilians. 32. Thirty-two. Hermann’s not even sure he knows thirty-two people.

Jonathan starts talking more and more about the USA, which is never a good thing ; before, he could barely mention his birth country without physically flinching. Now he mentions it almost as if it was a good thing. Almost as if it was an _option_ , for him. Something he was _considering_. Hermann doesn’t dare to ask, tries to change the subject. Anything. An interesting debate at school, an anecdote at the hospital, a movie he saw, when he has money to attend the theater (he’s still very much one for seeing movies alone, especially now that he knows he’ll have somebody to talk to afterwards). The last one he saw was terrible – a so-called _horror movie_ , which, he’ll admit, was a tiny bit scary, but mostly made him laugh, much to the discontent of the other viewers, who were genuinely terrified. _The Terror_ , it’s called ; it’s from the USA, and it’s brand new, and everyone in town has seen it.

“I swear, it's so bad, it'll still be running when you come back. That is, if you- if you choose to leave town.” Hermann tries to make it sound as though he doesn’t care, but… He most certainly does, and there’s nothing on his heartbroken face that says the contrary.

They don’t spend much nights together anymore.

*

When Hermann goes home from school that day, on that cold, rainy end-of-November Tuesday, he finds a letter in the mail for him. From Jonathan.

He picks it up, folds it, puts it in his back pocket, climbs the stairs to his flat with a ton on each heels. He already knows what the letter says. And he thinks-

How far apart can they grow again, how estranged can they be towards each other, when they’ve lived through nights of distance zero between them ?

Hermann feels all the exhaustion he thought he’d get rid off during the summer crawl back up his spine – the tidal waves that form he and Jonathan’s relationship – close, far, close, far – every effort shattered at the tiniest _faux-pas_.

God.

He picks at the skin of his palm. Pick. Pick. The skin feels raw and warm under his fingernails. He doesn’t want to open the letter. He’s starting to regret everything he ever said about the USA, including that stupid joke about the movie. Why did he even say it ? Such things are better left unmentioned, like a monster you can tame by keeping it under your bed. He doesn’t want to open the letter.

But he does it, all the same.

“ _Hermann_ ,

_I told you I was leaving. And I am. Last Friday put us against a wall, and I’m not one to stand there, waiting to get shot._

_There’s no future here ; I’m going back there. Not that New York has ever been home to me, but you know that already. I’m not looking for a home. I’m looking for options. This country has none for me._

_Maybe I can build myself something there. Don’t get me wrong, I still don’t think very high of my birth country ; but at least the politicians here have the decency to not express their hate in public speeches ; at least, not all of them do._

_You ought to leave, too, if I allow myself a piece of advice. You can also stay in the arson, and trust yourself to heal the skin when you inevitably get burned. You’re a doctor, before anything else, and you’ve chosen that path before._

_We may see each other again._

_I leave on Monday. That’s three days. Maybe that’s too much. Maybe that’s not enough._

_I feel like I should apologize. Trust you to know what for._

_Jonathan.”_

And eyes are a strange thing, sure, because he _never_ cries, but next thing he knows he’s bawling his eyes out on the paper, and those tears, together with the crinkles his hands make with how _tight_ he’s holding on the little piece of paper, it makes the letter unreadable, almost. He cries, and he can’t breathe, and his heart is being kicked out of his ribcage, and his lungs are plummeting down to his feet, and there are no metaphors for how bad he wants him to stay.

But he does nothing. He the mighty, he the clever, he the inventive, he who never let anyone tell him what he could and couldn’t do. Look at him now, stuck on the floor, with his face drenched and red, a high pitch to his cries he’d forgotten his vocal chords could produce.

The crying stops after half an hour or so, but the ache lingers until Sunday, when he can finally work some time off his schedule to visit Jonathan. Maybe – just maybe – a tiny part of him was afraid of the confrontation ; busied itself in all kind of works so he could pretend it wasn’t his fault if he couldn’t face Jonathan. He had to do extra hours at the hospital to pay rent this month – he’s barely keeping his head above water – hasn’t seen his endocrinologist since before he left for the farm. At least, those are the reasons he can admit to himself.

And the closest Monday was, the more terrified he was of going. Three days was a joke, anyway, to say goodbye to the most important person in his life ; two days more or two days less wouldn’t have changed that. Still, he’d like Jonathan’s last memory of him to be one of strength, beauty, and masculinity, but when he rings on his doorbell, at 8 P.M on Sunday, he’s a 5-ft-5 mess of sleep deprivation and frustration, shivering and sweaty, with violet eyebags and a twitching smile, already bursting full of regrets from not being able to come sooner.

He’s running on borowed time to be here, on that man’s doorstep, but Jonathan’s boat is tomorrow/ _pull yourself together, doctor, God, he’s looking at you/_

“Hello,” Jonathan says, as he moves aside to let Hermann in. They don’t even touch. And just like that, they’re already an ocean away from each other.

The entire night is loud and silent.

Then all of a sudden it’s 5 A.M, or sooner, or later, maybe, and Hermann isn’t asleep. He’s lying in bed, the sheets warm against his naked body, flashing memories from a couple hours ago of Jonathan’s form hovering above him. How he- how they-

He likes what they do. All of what they do. All the different ways their bodies blend together, he never… He never thought it would end like that, back in his hometown, when he was kissing those boys in the wood. He liked it with Lothar too, but he didn’t act much. Didn’t know how. Now he does – it’s a two-dancers performance, and it’s not always beautiful, but it’s _always_ what they came for.

Two feet away from him, a silhouette moves, and the bed creaks as that figure rolls out of it. The sound of a match cracking, of coffee beans roasting on the stove. Jonathan never eats in the mornings. That coffee-making ritual, it has become a habit between them. Hermann hears him berathe, a low noise, a silent one, that comes buzzing with the sound of the flames glowing under the coffee pot. And himself, he’s still half-asleep, lying in bed with his eyes closed, unable to get up and face Jonathan, when today’s the day he-

The night before, they barely talked. Couldn’t. They touched, kissed, held each other, but… Hermann, he’s never been to a funeral, doesn’t know how to say goodbye. Why is Jonathan leaving, he thinks, when there is nothing right about it ? Were his prayers not enough ? Not loud enough ? Not deep enough ? If Jonathan isn’t part of his future, then suddenly the skyline is an unsure, frightening place. And he knows the dangers of erasing himself for other people’s sake, he’s known it since he was a small, small, boy, and promised himself it’d never happen to him, but...

Jonathan spoke of many things, that night ; New York, what he will be doing there, how Ernst will join him in a month or two, how Germany just isn’t for him. None of it being what Hermann wanted to hear.

Now it’s 5:30 A.M. The man must be smoking a cigarette, because even though it’s freezing cold, the window is open. Sounds of huffs and puffs can be heard. He can almost picture the smoke swirling in the morning air. December in Germany. Maybe he’s just leaving because it’s always so cold here. It’s likely Jonathan didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. Now it’s 5:31 A.M, and the room, is silent, and it’s more meaningful that anything they’ve said the night before.

Hermann, he still hasn’t opened his eyes.

The guy in the dark suits closes the window and pours himself a cup of coffee ; the boy assisting his grandfather’s dissections drinks it at slow gulps ; the wounded man seeking bandages late at night leaves his cup in the sink, and goes to the bathroom to pee.

In the amphitheater, a year ago, that man looked at Hermann. Saw him smiling, decided it was a man worth talking to. For a second, he wants to stand up and speak ; say something, anything. But he doesn’t. Instead he listens to Jonathan grabbing his suitcases and putting on his coat, and he lays still, still, still, still, he lays there, in the cold room, not even moving to bury himself deeper under the covers.

God, Jonathan’s leaving.

He’s leaving. No more German breeze in his hair, no more German booze down his throat, no more German blades in his fist. He’s leaving. The USA had always been a long way off (even more so since he met Jonathan, ever since it became the far-away land the young man would curse every so so often.) But now it’s too close to real. An ocean. He doesn’t even know what it looks like. He’s visited the northern harbour cities of the country with his parents on two occasions, but it was only the sea, and it had already felt like it was ready to swallow him whole.

An ocean, all the way to the New World, a world where he has no business being.

He loves Jonathan.

“ _Just shut the door when you leave, tomorrow_ ,” Jonathan whispered the night before, just before they fell asleep. _“Turn the lights off and go.”_ Now it’s 5:46 and he’s leaving and he says nothing.

The door closes. Hermann breathes.

  


Funny how, afterwards, life keeps on ; with all of them that made the choice to stay. Which, as it turns out, doesn’t include Fritz. Because (he learns it three days after Jonathan’s departure) his friend’s leaving too.

It would have been _so funny_ to Hermann, that he once again failed to noticed the obvious, but he’s not much in the mood for fun those days. So he doesn’t laugh.

“Why ?” His throat is dry.

“As soon as possible.” Fritz’s grinning wide, wide, wide. “Johannes, he- he got a job in Berlin. Berlin, Hermann, imagine ! We’ll have so many opportunities there. Plus, I can be just as much a doctor there as I would be here. Who cares about degrees, these days ?” ( _A lot of people_ , Hermann thinks, but he says nothing. The day Fritz grounds himself in reality for his projects, pigs will fly.)

And maybe, also because he can see the love in Fritz’s eyes, when he talks about his man, and it hurts, but if at least one of them can get a good ending, then so be it.

“I’ll miss you,” Hermann says.

He waits for the “goodbye’s”, the “thank you for everything”, the “write me”. He thought Fritz would jump in his arms and say that he could come visit whenever he wanted, that he was welcome to join them in Berlin anytime.

But his friend doesn’t. He talks about what life will be like there, and there’s a certain uneasiness in his words, like there’s an elephant on his chest – and in the room.

 _When have we grown apart like that_? Hermann asks. Maybe they haven’t. Maybe Fritz just got tired of waiting for someone who just couldn’t be bothered to care, or to ask him about his whereabouts, or to help him when he was in trouble. Maybe Fritz got tired.

That _one thing_ he had good in his life, he fucked up.

Karla. At least he has Karla. Does he ? Didn’t he help her out with the poliomyelitis (she still hasn’t answered his letter) only to feel better about taking advantage of her ? He got in, she didn’t. Natural order of things. Men (even men like him) get far in life ; women stay behind. God. God.

Maybe he’s wrong, maybe Fritz still cares every bit about him as he always seemed to. Hermann can’t stop staring at his lips, how they curl around the edges, how off the smiles seem. God. God. God. He doesn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t want to be alone. _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say, but he doesn’t know what he would be apologizing for. _Please stay_. But he knows he can’t do any better than this.

So instead, he smiles. Doesn’t offer to accompany him to the station. Fritz doesn’t ask him to.

  


He’s had nothing in his life before, sure.

But this is the first time he has everything taken from him ;

And his hands feel like leftovers no one cared to carry with them.

  


When leaving his birthplace with his hair cut short and a solid pile of stolen money in his bags, Hermann reasonably expected never to hear from his family again. Not that he'd miss them ; he knows they probably remember him as their deviant daughter, which he isn't ; well, at least, not for the daughter part.

(Funny how now, being intimate with men would probably get him in jail, but to his parents and relatives that knew him back in his hometown, it's probably the only part of him they would deem normal, their so-called daughter fucking men. Well, maybe not the fucking part. They would have said _marrying_.)

It is when the landlady asks him about his young sister that he understands something is wrong. And when she shows him a letter addressed to his birth name, Medical School, Surgery department, Heidelberg, that he gets the confirmation for it. She says there are not so many Einstein in the school, in this kind of studies, and that it was a teacher of his who gave it to her, assuming it was for a relative of his or something. _Dammit. Probably von Ubitsch at it again._

“Yes, my sister,” he mutters. “We used to travel together, my grandmother must have forgotten we're no longer in the same place, she's old, she surely got it wrong. Thank you, I'll transfer it to her.” He's still shaking long after he's back alone in his room. It only stops once he opens the letter.

He expects insults, slurs, hate, but he gets none of it. Instead, all there is inside is a torn paper, stained with ink. It looks like the official kind ; the name and the address of his hometown's city hall are written on top of the paper. It mentions his birth date, it mentions his birth name – that's when he gets it.

A birth certificate.

Shredded to pieces and stained with ink.

Now, as mentioned beforehand, he didn't expect his family to love him unconditionally after his... departure. And he left almost two years ago. But maybe this is a little too much. A thousand questions slither in his head, he feels a headache coming. This is not good. He has work to do. A life to move on with. He has an important paper due tomorrow.

Yet yes, this is a little too much ; it was easy to play the rebellious kid back home, when he knew he'd come back at the end of the day and eat with them and sleep in their house, when he knew they still considered him their child, even if he had strayed from the path of God, even if the neighborhood talked about him behind closed doors, and even if his parents were ashamed. But now, now, he's just dead ; he's no longer _anything_ to them, and he wonders if he'd preferred staying their daughter.

It’s been two years, goddamnit, and he hates it, because he doesn’t feel any kin to those people anymore. Yet he weeps, and he hates it, and he hates them, and he hates himself, and he weeps even harder.

He wants to hit something, he wants to hurt something, he wants to have sick organs to fix so he can at least be good at something. He thinks of Jonathan, how he's gone, how Fritz is gone, how even he is gone to his parents. He thinks and he thinks and he thinks, trying to come up with a solution that could undo all this mess, but he can't think of anything, really. He wishes there was surgery for this. He wishes he knew more about the brain, but the thought alone of neurosurgery makes him sick in the stomach. He wishes for some kind of medicine that would annihilate it all, like morphine did while his chest was being cut open by two foreign hands. He picks at his skin. Once. Twice. Three, four, ten times.

Then once, once again, he reaches for the schnapps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call it "the chapter where Hermann is very happy and then very sad" but you're left to your own interprentations.
> 
> Comments are very welcome !!


	10. The authority of someone who owns (what they were so afraid they'd lost forever)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bark it, state it.

Jonathan left on a cloudy, rainy December morning, and came back on a cloudy, damp, July evening.

*

He’s dreamt about this more times than he could ever care to recall. Ever since Jonathan left he’s been remembering his dreams – and nightmares – more and more frequently, and since ’33 it’s almost every morning that he wakes up with the adventures of the past night fresh in mind.

Many times, he’s dreamt about this, and it was always the same plot ; they both met at the deck in Hamburg (the city a mix of what Hermann pictures a harbour city to look like, and of his clouded memories of visiting it when he was ten). They met, and he never remembered how he got there, but there he was, and they met, by total chance, a few hours before sunrise, as they both roamed the docks on their own. In that story, they always parted ways quickly, and never saw each other again.

It never failed to throw Hermann into deep pits of frustration – it was _so unrealistic_ – how could they meet again and _ever_ leave each other’s side after that ? But no matter how many times he cursed his subconscious for its foolishness, the dream came back, like clockwork, every two weeks or so. The nights he dreamt this were bad omens. Signs of moody awakenings, rainy mornings, dark days. Feeling betrayed by your own sleeping self doesn’t do much for your self-esteem.

 

**July 1935**

He has something… something in his voice, he maybe didn’t have before.

That word. That one word. _Doctor_.

It’s a scalding hot summer night with nothing but steam in the air, something too close to burning. Unwell in everyone’s lungs but Hermann’s. Because he, he’s grown used to this fire taste in his chest, and this is the night he’ll slay every dragon that dares cross his path.

He’d never imagined the day would come, and so fast ; he’s been whispering “doctor Einstein” for days on end, to get used to the flavor. Sure, he won’t attract so many clients with such a name, considering how few -steins have _droit de cite_ in Germany those days, but to Hell with it. He’s still allowed inside those walls, so he stays. For now.

He has _graduated_.

He fondly remembers the old days where he was _Magnus Einstein_ , toying around with his old name, trying to fit into a new one, something so he could name himself outside of what the world wanted him to be. He said _Magnus_ as defiance, repeated it, over and over. But it was never him. When he settled on _Hermann_ , weary from the fight, it was like stepping into a cool room in the middle of August. Breathe. Come home. _Herr._ Sir. _Mann_.

 _Magnus Einstein_ never became a doctor ; _Hermann Einstein_ did, and it’s probably the most wonderful thing in the world. Each of the pavement on the sidewalk is his. He’s so high on his little cloud, he jostles two men in uniforms, who instantly turn to him. Shit. It’s the second time this week. It’s been two years since 1933, and he’s still not used to it. Before they have the time to bark at him, he whispers half an apology and walks away. He knows perfectly where he’s heading, and he doesn’t want them to find out.

At least, now, he has proper identification. Not that it’ll help him much, in such a country, with such origins, with such a body, but- it allows him to sleep a little tighter, and makes breathing a little easier. Ever since the new government rose to power, he’s seen more nights like this than he cares to remember ; nights of short breaths, of fear, of terror, of _everything_ they want him dead for, just like the old days of bandages on skin. His chest hasn’t hurt in years, now, but those nights still feel like they’re going to open the stitches wide.

The people at the bar make it a bit easier to live through, too. That’s why it’s where he chooses to go to celebrate the end of his studies – if anything like a celebration is possible, in Nazi Germany. Frankly, right now, he’d rather not think about that, and focus on the impressive quantity of money he’s going to spend on alcohol for him and other people, tonight.

*

Proper identification he has. He managed to get it done last year. In his hometown. Two bottles of schnapps for the road and off he was, to the most terrifying trip he’d ever done. He spent the entire way talking to a God he scarcely believed in, just so They could make it all go smoothly, remove all the bumps from the roads, outstretch Their hands gently to show him the way.

Somehow, it went right. That is, he got his papers done, with what was probably the most amorphic clerk in the history of clerkhood ; young, almost a kid, one he didn’t know and that didn’t know him. It all got settled in two or three hours of bargaining, a fair share of lies and half-truths, and waving around the title of Doctor he technically still hadn’t earned at the time. It also helped to have his torn birth certificate at hand ; after the initial shock wore off, six years ago, he had the sense to keep the piece of paper handy, _in case_. As it turns out, it helps _a great deal_ to be able to display your former brith certificate, when you’re trying to get a new one done. And well, if _by sheer coincidence_ , the first name and the sex mention are covered with ink on the certificate, it’s not his fault, is it ?

(He’s grown good at this, over the years ; standing straight, talking loud, bumping his fist on the table. He tries to keep this kind of show to a bare minimum,  because he doesn’t like who he is when he’s like this, and he worries, were he to ever catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror during those moments, that he would see a stranger looking back at him. But this confidence – it’s what it takes, in a country ruled by a dictator obsessed by masculinity and strength, to achieve what one wants. Or needs. In a word, to be a man.)

It went right, his trip to his hometown, but it also went wrong ; he didn’t meet his father or his mother (five hours it was that he spent there, between the exact second he stepped in and the moment the train left), but he did see his aunt, his father’s older sister, walking up the avenue, doing groceries. He must have been bad at hiding his surprise (the lump in his throat, his buckling knees, the cold sweat under his shirt) because she spotted him, and they shared a glance long, long, long.

She called him by a girl’s name. The niece she thought she had’s name. In a voice that meant she couldn’t believe her eyes, but with that old name nonetheless. He hadn’t heard it in years. He didn’t speak. Not a word. And after a couple of seconds, “I’m sorry, Madam, you must be mistaken”, he said.

So _she_ still hid in his features, then, after all those years ? He prided himself in being unrecognizable, in not having a single line of _her_ face on his ; she didn’t even ever exist, that _girl_ they kept labelling him as, and she’s still chasing after him, twenty-nine full years after birth ? He held the paper the clerk gave him against his chest (with the right name) (with the right sex) and walked away, trying to hold back the tears. _Man_ , he told himself, over and over again. _Man, this man,_ and it sounded suspiciously like the way Jonathan had said it, that one night they talked about his body.

Now he’s official. Now he exists. Now no one ever thinks he’s anything but a man anymore, even though he hasn’t moved forward with the _other_ surgery. He’s not sure he wants to ; who else could he be trying to impress this with ? (Not that he could ever find the money, or a decent surgeon for this, anyway.) He’s heard of Karl M. Baer, the first man to undergo that surgery in Europe (Hirschfeld detailed the procedure in his book), as everyone in this _circle_ has, but…

He keeps postponing the moment he’ll have to admit to himself that he simply _doesn’t want it._

Hirschfeld. God, the man sure makes people’s mouth run, those days. Hermann has seen his books get burned by _them_ more times than he could count on both his hands and his feet. Back in ‘34, good old Magnus was the number one Boogieman for some months, considered by some to be the symbol of everything that was wrong with this country. Everything _they_ wanted to get rid of. Back then, all Hermann would do was shrug and walk away, his shoulders lumping a bit more every time, trying not to let his eyes wander too much towards the fire.

Not that he had much pride left in him, anyways. Or, on the contrary, he had more than ever ; but it all went in trying to convince himself he was worth anything, picking himself up from the ground and trying to learn how to walk straight again, after each of his limbs was dislocated by grief. Even Herr Brewster ended up leaving, three months after Jonathan’s departure, towards the end of January, 1929. To France, they said. They said he was offered a really good position there. Hermann knew better, but said nothing. The old man was scared as hell, that’s what happened ; he knew that, but had no one to confide into anymore. As for Friedrich, Hermann slowly stopped talking to him, as he went realizing that, had Friedrich known _anything_ personal about him, he would have sold his head to the first blackmailer and then told everyone at school about that deviant Hermann Einstein girl-boy.

1929 was a dark year.

Not that the other ones were perfect, but… ‘29 was the bottom of the abyss, of the darkness, was being so broke he sometimes had to move out twice or three times a month, of living in the streets for a week, it was missing classes because of suspicious red stains on his handkerchief when he coughed. The economic crisis took the country by storm – left everyone so deep in the mud it sometimes made him feel a little less worthless, to see that everyone was struggling almost as much as he was.

Work was work ; whatever came his way, so he could eat, and maybe sleep in a bed. It wasn’t always good jobs, or legal jobs, or pleasurable jobs, but he did them all, and all the same. Selling alcohol was among the nicest of those jobs, and even it was terrible ; all the bad habits he’d picked on since he arrived in Heidelberg – the habitual, sweet taste of schnapps on his tongue – he let them go wild. He somehow managed to pass his exams, and to stay on hormones (albeit extremely underground and disreputable hormones), because those two were his absolute main priorities – and at what cost did they sometimes come… How often did he crash at other people’s apartments, more than anything at the flat of two female friends of his, who lived together and loved each other and therefore knew all about the shame and alienation he was going through. Tina and Eva – how he loved them, how he _cared_ about them. They made surviving the year a possibility, an option, and that was all he needed. On the 31st of December, he celebrated the beginning of the new decade with a slightly more stable financial situation, and a heavy sigh of relief.

Six years, and Jonathan Brewster hasn’t left his mind for more than a week at a time. Which is impressive. He hasn’t been trying _that_ hard to move on ; instead, he let the memory of that man take up space in his life, a shadowy figure much like that same man was at the library at night, back when they hadn’t started talking. It’s not in a live-in-the-past kind of way ; more like remember-fondly-and-keep-on-living. “I wonder what he would have thought of this”, occasionally, “he would have known about that…” It’s not wistful. It’s not gloomy. It just is. The days he seriously considered leaving everything behind and buying a one-way trip to the New Continent are over.

He’s 29, now, and he’s got a life. A life, in Karla, who had the operation she needed and is now keeping up a correspondence by letter with him, on a monthly-or-so basis. Jonathan’s name might have crawled under his quill, in his ink, once or twice (or three or four times) but she never mentioned it.

He’s got a life. He’s had lovers. He’s travelled all over the country, for studies, for leisure – visited Fritz in Berlin once, for old times’ sake – he’s kissed men, had men. He’s been careful. He’s been precautious. He hasn’t been blackmailed once. Hasn’t heard from Richter ever again, except that he left the city to teach in Freiburg in the beginning of Hermann’s third year. He’s had friends. They’ve left. He’s left. He’s kept on.

He’s also voted for Ernst Thälmann, for the KPD, in March 1932, and again in the legislatives elections of July, the ones who saw Göring become President of the Reichtag. He has sort of regretted his decision, when he witnessed the only party he believed in, the Communists, tag along with the NSDAP in the Transports Strike, in the name of some meaningless class solidarity. He didn’t vote in the legislatives of November, the last ones before Hitler got in power. Those could very possibly be the last elections of his lifetime, to be honest. He has watched his country fall to pieces, all the walls tumble down, and he’s been _terrified_. Still is. January, 1933 seems like a lifetime ago. He can’t remember what uniform-less streets look like.

Now he’s a doctor.

God, he’s a surgeon.

He always knew he’d get there, sure ; but he never thought about what he’d do next.

*

When he enters the bar, that night, the bartender greets him with a giant embrace (he’s thinner than Hermann, most people are, but also way taller, and the hugs they share always feel suffocating). And gets him a tall pint of his best beer.

“Well, if it’s not our doctor boy !”

Hermann’s spent so many sleepless nights there (and in a handful of other bars of the same kind – three in total in the entire city, that’s Bavaria for you), ordering more schnapps in a week than any respectable student should drink in an entire semester, that he’s quickly become an _habitué_. Anton, the owner, is Jewish. They’ve mentioned it a handful of times, but, surprisingly so, much less often since 1933. It’s all in the knowing looks they share whenever a drunken guy starts praising the government or throwing anti-Semitic slurs around, or, much worse, whenever those NSDAP clowns get in the mood and go for a beat up in the district. There’s not much either of them can do about it. Hermann’s in much less danger, considering he’s only one quarter Jewish, as opposed to Anton’s full heritage ; but they both know it’s only a matter of time before they start lumping all of them together in one giant “too Jewish to stay here” bag. So it’s what they do, in the meanwhile – limit the damage. And the day after, they clean up the mess, throw away the shattered glass on the floor, erase the tags, repair the windows. It’s a miracle the bar hasn’t closed yet. Hermann was among those who most often gave a hand at tidying up, in the early days of the regime. He quickly became known, among the clients, as “that one small medical student who likes schnapps and dark-haired men”, and then before he knew it he was a part of _that_ crowd.

It’s not the same people he hanged out with back in Fritz’ days ; they’re much more diverse. Much funnier. And it’s not a family, but it sometimes feels like one.

So that night, Anton is not the only one to congratulate him. Tina and Eva are there too, and they follow his beer with a solid glass of schnapps. Tina’s a woman in the same way he’s a man, and the only person _like this_ he knows, likes, and who likes him back. She lost both her legs in a war she went to as someone she wasn’t (each time the ghost of his brother gets too loud, and each time her nightmares bring her back there, they talk together, and reach some sort of common ground.) Eva is her lover, and she owns another bar a couple streets down ; she taught Hermann everything he knows about well-tailored suits, and how to dress impeccably while being constantly broke. He takes a sit at their table, and joins the ongoing conversation – one about the political situation in Spain. He assures them that the topic interests him (and it does), but Eva keeps insisting he tells them about his graduation instead (so he does). He’s too euphoric to miss an opportunity like that one.

Tina, from 1929 onwards, helped making sure he always got his hormones, even during times he couldn’t afford dinner, or new clothes. In return, he’s acted as the family doctor for them both since they met, saving them the expensive luxury of going to an actual, graduated doctor. Every time one of them started coughing too much or growing a fever, he always made sure she was back on her feet by the end of the week. Tina gets her hormones from the same doctor ; she’s been taking them for more than fifteen years, enough to have lived through a lot of experimentations, of trial-and-error in the field, and enough to be able to live as a woman without anyone ever questioning her right to do so. Recently, the looks they exchanged have been growing heavy with the knowledge that their endocrinal situation (entering the doctor’s office, exiting it with their life-saving medication) was all too temporary, under such a regime.

But tonight, they’re celebrating. And he’s halfway through his first beer, deep into the telling of an anecdote about how he avoided doing the Nazi salute on more than ten occasions during the entire ceremony – that he notices.

 

It’s not like they say in the movies.

 

The world doesn’t stop spinning. Doesn’t stand still. Instead, it starts revolving around the apparition. His heart doesn’t get stuck in his throat. Instead, he’s suddenly invaded by a feeling of calm. Like he always knew it would happen.

That he’d come back.

That he’d come here.

That he’d come to him.

They meet gaze. They smile.

Jonathan hasn’t even started walking in his direction that Hermann has already moved aside, making space for him at the table.

*

Hermann had never talked about Jonathan to anyone – well, once or twice to Karla, but he never mentioned him by name. It was this one “his” thing, that precious memory he held behind his teeth, inside his sleeves, something to unwrap at the end of the day for him and himself only.

He told Fritz, but only in the beginning – his friend left before he could tell him the entire story. He’s mentioned the man to Anton as “this man I once knew.” To Tina as “an old friend”. Didn’t dare mention his name.

When Jonathan pulls up a seat that night and introduces himself to the two women, he’s, in outer view, nothing but a casual acquaintance. Both women smile wide, lock eyes with Hermann, silently asking if he wants to be left alone with that attractive stranger they hear about for the first time. He says no with a discreet tilt of the head, before finally directing his entire attention on the newcomer.

Jonathan hasn’t aged a bit.

He must be… 25, now, and the exact same man. That odd creature with a long face, hard features, and an undecipherable age somewhere between seventeen and thirty. Hermann, he’s let his facial hair grow into a thin black mustache that he trims every morning, the rest of his face perfectly shaved. It suits him, he thinks. Gives him a respectable look he doesn’t mind sporting in his everyday life, in school, or for business/safety purpose.

Jonathan notices Hermann staring at him, introduces himself to the couple – I’m Jonathan. I knew Hermann in first year. Nice to meet you.

He smiles more. Talks more. Makes eye contact with people. Sits stiller. Straighter. Moves himself with ease. Actually looks alive. And that’s when the ache starts.

Strong, painful pans, deep in his heart. And he doesn’t understand how he managed to go two  whole minutes in Jonathan Brewster’s company without holding him tight, tight, tight, and kissing him like there’s no tomorrow.

His fingers have wrapped around Jonathan’s without his say so, but when he feels the man squeeze back, he decides he doesn’t mind.

“Go out for a smoke ?” Hermann asks, and the man he loves quirks an eyebrow at him, interrupted in a conversation he was starting to have with the two women, and that Hermann couldn’t for the life of him pay attention to.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Jonathan whispers.

Hermann whispers back, taking a cig from his jacket’s front pocket. “I didn’t know you were back.”

He sends an apologetic look to Tina (especially five minutes after telling them it was okay if they stayed, but he can’t be blamed for having forgotten Jonathan’s incredible empire on him), assures them he’ll be back in no time. She smiles – he tosses her enough money to buy the two of them another pint of beer – and she gives him his blessing.

 

They light up their fags silently, enjoying the quiet hum of the night. If you can call “quiet” the mix of half-muffled noises from the bar and the occasional loud voices of drunken passerby’s.

It’s Jonathan who speaks first. In English, of course. They’ve been using German so far – Jonathan’s one is a bit rusty, at least when it comes to the accent, even though he’s clearly improved his grammar – but English is their intimate language. Has always been. He looks sideways at Hermann as he takes a drag, and says : “Hello, doctor.”

The title feels utterly natural when rolling off Jonathan's tongue. As if it'd been lying there forever. It's all back, the shortness of breath from this dissection, in Heidelberg, that feels like a lifetime ago. All there, but now Hermann's most certain it has nothing to do with misplaced chest bandages. He wants Jonathan to know about this.

And about every thing that's happened in those six years, really. All of it.

“So when did you come back to town ?”

“This morning.”

Another quiet moment.

“They seemed nice. Are they who you’ve been hanging around with ?”

“Who ?”

“These two women inside.”

Hermann laughs. Looks away. “It’s been six years, Jonathan. I’ve been doing lots of things. Seeing lots of people.”

“You’ve settled down with someone ?”

Better avoid the question. “Six years.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No. Not… Not these days.”

“Plus, it’s six years and seven months.”

Another silence. They’re still learning how to be comfortable with each other as real people, not as ghosts. They were times where Hermann couldn’t tell the difference.

“Look, why did you come back ?”

He instantly regrets the outburst. There is no reason for him to do this, but – the joy of the first moments has quickly left way to anger, at Jonathan, at himself, at all those moments of silence when there’s so much to be said. “Done something bad there ? Did they chase you out ? What are you looking for ?”

God, sometimes he should really shut the hell up. He takes a long drag, keeps his stupid mouth busy so it stops running. He didn’t see it going that way. Angry. 29, he’s 29 and still angry like some schoolboy who got dumped by his girlfriend. Why so ? Why isn’t he over this ?

He wasn’t angry for a second in forty-nine months and now, _now_ , of all times…

Jonathan finally takes his eyes off him and throws his stud on the road (he’s always been a fast smoker. Fast burner ; as it turns out, age hasn’t slowed his pace down.)

“There are… Lots of reasons, to be honest. But I’m not sure you want to hear them.”

That’s it. The final straw.

“Of _course_ I fucking want to hear them, Jonathan ! I’ve been waiting here all this time ! I’ve been thinking about you, wondering why the _Hell_ I wasn’t good enough for you to stay ! The first year, at least. Then I was too busy trying to build myself back from literally everyone in my life bailing out on me ! I could have _died_ , there, and you would have come back to Germany only to find your sorry ass alone ! And- and- and that stupid government wants me dead, and you too, and a lot of people, and they’re beating us up in the streets and no one bats an eye !”

He catches his breath before he gets too red. He always does that, when he argues- get red, cry, shake, shiver. He hates it. If only he could stand like a man, for one time in his life-

“So _yes_ , I want to know why you’re here ! So I can finally figure out for myself if you’re worth sticking around with or not ! So I can at least know if you’re not going to leave tomorrow morning by the first boat.”

“I’m not.”

“ _Whatever_! Tell me, and tell me now, or else I-” He bits his lips, swallows his tears one more time, tries to go on- “or else we’re done.”

Jonathan takes a deep breath and looks at him.

Really, really looks at him.

And then he starts talking.

And he tells him everything. How he hasn’t forgotten about him, how the two years he spent in Germany had grown on him more than he’d care to admit. How the USA turned out to not be much safer a place than here- especially when you’re on your own. And he was on his own, or almost. There was no way in Hell he could tell his aunts he was back, so he just went from flat to flat, not really settling anywhere.

For the first time, Jonathan talks about Ernst. That name he kept dropping in passing (Hermann reckons grandfather Brewster mentioned him once too), without ever going into more details… Jonathan says they met on the Transatlantic to Germany, eight years ago. That he was alone. They were both alone, but suddenly they weren’t anymore. (Hermann didn’t dare ask what he meant by that.) They started out small, then not so much – twice they robbed banks in Hamburg – more than anything, they broke into flats and took things. Valuable things. Ernst had a good eye.

Jonathan’s lighted another cigarette, and he looks straight ahead as he smokes.

When Jonathan decided to go back to the US, he offered Ernst to come with him, knowing he’d need somebody there to work with. Someone who was as lost and hopeless as he was. Who didn’t have anything in Germany he needed to do. (There he casts a side glance at Hermann). Jonathan mentions more bank robberies on the East Coast. Something about drug selling, too. When Hermann tells him he’s been in that business too, in 1929, for some months, to make ends meet – Jonathan looks at him with wide eyes and arched eyebrows, in genuine surprise, before going back to his story a few seconds later, and it seems to Hermann that maybe it’s the first time Jonathan fully understands exactly how much they exist without one another.

Their third bank robbery went wrong, Jonathan says. Rushed. Not planned out enough. It was one and a half month ago. He adds he was already considering Germany at that point.  Says the thought never really ceased lingering in his mind. Anyways, the police arrived too early ; they parted ways after a broken arm for Jonathan and two bullets in the leg for Ernst. Never saw each other again. Next thing he knew his face was plastered in all the police stations of the state. He could have just kept on travelling, sure, but… A week after he was on the boat to Hamburg. He admits, as a conclusion, that he could have done a bit more research on the political situation.

“Jonathan ?”

“Yes ?”

“And what about Steiner ?”

There it is. The tough subject.

“Hermann.”

“No, please. I need to hear about it.”

“Hermann, if that’s what you’re asking, then _no_ , I don’t have any other scumbag fascist’s blood on my hands. Jesus Christ. I told you. I told you it wouldn’t happen again.”

“Right. Well I’m sorry it sounded a bit hard to believe by then. You were- so unstable-”

“Well, I too have spent the last years of my life trying to rebuild a life in shambles. So no. Haven’t done- anything worse than a good beat-up to cops in the meanwhile. It’s like all that violence I’d felt in myself all my life- it was gone. And when it came back, I tried not to let it out on anyone- not myself, and especially not on other people. I’ve succeeded for the latter. For the former… It was a bit more complicated.”

Hermann immediately scans Jonathan’s upper chest, as if looking for scars or wounds he knows won’t be seeable underneath the clothes, but… Just to think of blades on that man’s skin, it makes his crawl.

“Johnny, you needed help, back then. Surely you still do. But I couldn’t give it to you.”

“I’ve been taking something. Some pills. They’re done for- people like me. It was a friend of Ernst’s who knew someone like me, and he said those pills were still in testing, but for some people… They worked. In the beginning, they didn’t, but I held on and now… Now everything just seems so much less loud.”

“Pills ? Are you _sure_ they’re good ?”

“I don’t care. I don’t _fucking_ care, because I’ve been taking them for years, and the worst side effects are some headaches and a bit of muscle soreness. They’re experimental as hell, and there’s no way any doctor with a degree would have given them to me. Remember that neuroscience course you took, doctor ? Well that’s reality. That’s what science is doing right now, what they’re studying, and there are many things I hate about the USA, but damnit if we don’t have good research teams. And well, you have to test them, at some point, right ? So some doctors with- slightly less conventional morals, they’ve been offering them to patients.”

“But it’s going to change you, it’s going to make you dependent-”

“Just like you guys are dependent on the ones you have naturally wired up in your brain, Hermann. It’s going to change me. Great. Because I’m not going back in Hell. I don’t care. I don’t care what it does to me, as long as I’m allowed to be human again. I’m never forgetting what I’ve done, doctor. I’ll never do. But I can’t do anything about it now- just do everything in my power to avoid it _ever_ happening again.”

A thought pops in Hermann’s mind, as he tries to process what he’s hearing. Lines from that book that struck him so much, during the few weeks he spent obsessing over neuroscience and the possibilities of it (before the Richter fiasco). Something about how all the transmitters in our brains were chemicals- it was in the introduction of the book. We didn’t know much about how this weird little machine worked, but we know it’s a complex set of scientific matters, a mix of electronics, chemistry, physics, biology ; he remembers feeling the endless possibilities of such a statement. Understand everything about the brain, everything that goes wrong and why it does so. He remembers thinking about whether his _difference_ when it comes to sex was written somewhere in his brain. Human brains are machines, the book said, the most advanced, complex machines of the creation ; we only lack the manual. Well now he has the living proof of this before his eyes ; humans court-circuiting nature, correcting defaults to make life just a little more bearable. Isn’t it what he’s doing with hormones, what he’s known he needed for so long, anyway ?

“Sure. I don’t know. I- I trust you. But I- And I’m not even sure I’m convinced by what you say. Not even knowing whether you’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Listen, I don’t know If I’m gonna stay. It was… A bit of a rushed decision, maybe. Coming back. My being wanted there may have played a significant role in it. And whatever I expected of a country in dictatorship, it wasn’t… This. I don’t know if I’m going to stay, but…”

Hermann asks, “Did you come back for me ?”

He locks his eyes on the ground. He can feel Jonathan’s gaze burning through his cheeks, but there’s no way he can look at him in the eye now.

“You mentioned Ernst, the law, your haphazard-ness. Great.  But did you also come back for me ?”

Jonathan finishes off his second cigarette, and his last excuse is gone. Now he’s got no choice but to answer, and it seems to unnerve him.

“I did.”

Funny, how it makes something in Hermann click into place, and at once the future is back- not as this dark mass of uncertainty, not a cloud of smoke getting in your eyes- but as something bright. Wide. Ahead.

“Let’s go inside.”

Just before crossing the doorframe – it’s not really initiated by either of them, more like the logical consequence of a series of events – they lean towards each other, and they kiss, and by some miracle of God above, no one in the street sees them.

*

It’s the third round of beer already (Hermann’s switched to schnapps two rounds ago) and Tina, Eva, Hermann and Jonathan are busy discussing domestic politics with a drunken, albeit refreshing, enthusiasm. Well, Jonathan looks as sober as always- he hasn’t grown softer over the years, at least not on that. Hermann’s just a bit tipsy. After years of drinking a bit more than his share, his resistance has increased some. Which is a good thing. Probably. Just before they went back to the table, he discreetly asked Jonathan whether it was fine by him to go sit at the two women’s table, or if he wanted to talk in private some more. “We have all the time in the world,” Jonathan answered, with the stupid grin of someone who has just kissed someone he hasn’t kissed in years, so they lock lips again, and pull up their chairs at the couple’s table.

 

“Is there... Anything good that happened in Germany while I was away ? Apart from you joining the ranks of the croakers ?”

Hermann pretends to think for a second, an act he's been perfecting over the years.

“Well, there is this Domagk guy who discovered this antibacterial drug, against infections and that stuff, back in February. That's pretty much all.”

“Then you’ve also been rearming and a new air force has been created,” says Jonathan.

“You said 'good'”. Hermann lays against the back of his seat.

“If we’re talking ‘good’, yeah, that’s all there is,” Tina chimes in. Her English is rusty and filled with German-ism, but she can sport it fairly well, for someone who’s only practiced it with fellow queers from the USA spending their holiday here. “But if it’s ‘interesting’, that you want, then you can’t not mention the _Warum Arierparagraph.”_

She doesn’t wait for Jonathan to ask what it’s about, and follows : “It was published last year. _Ein Beitrag zur Judenfrage_. An article for the… Jewish question. They explain in it, why we need a law to take the Jewish- the Jews out. Disgusting.”

Eva adds, “And then there’s the...” she stops, visibly looking for the right words in English- then gives up and turns to Hermann : “ _Gesetz zur Verhütung erbkranken Nachwuchses”._

“Law for the Prevention of… children with a, a hereditary disease.” (He thanks God for making him read several medical books in English, providing him with the vocabulary for such situations.) “It’s something for people with physical and mental conditions. So they can be sterilized. It passed somewhere in 1933. Blindness, epilepsy, schizophrenia ; as long as it’s passed through genes.” He lets out a dry laugh. “That takes us off the list, at least. Sexual deviancy isn’t hereditary, as far as we’re concerned.”

(Tina translates quickly to Eva, who seems to have a hard time following. Hermann promises himself they’ll have English classes together soon ; word’s out it may be useful in case they find themselves leaving the country. Just in case.)

Jonathan’s face has darkened, and Hermann knows exactly why- but there’s no way he’ll try to comfort the man, knowing perfectly that it’ll make him feel weak, and that’s not something he wants. His reaction is perfectly understandable ; no one would want to hear that the country you’ve just come back too wants you to never reproduce, out of fear that you transmit your sick, disgusting genes to other people.

And they all know it’s just the first step, too ; wanting people not to have children is only the first stone in politics that want all _abnormals_ to disappear entirely from the face of the Earth. After all, the Seventh Annual Nazi Party is coming in a few months, and it’s common knowledge that important laws are going to be passed there. Hermann wouldn’t be caught dead in Nuremberg during it, with thousands of fascists roaming the streets, waving proudly their little swastika flags.

Here’s to hoping it won’t turn out as bad as everyone he knows says it will. _Schwüle_ , transvestites, mentally and physically ill, immigrants, Jews, Rroma, Sinti- all on the cliff’s edge. Here’s to hoping, and he finishes his drink wistfully, because don’t everyone know that hope isn’t anywhere to be seen since 1933 ?

 

It’s close to 2 A.M when Tina starts yawning noisily, and the two decide to call it a night. Hermann, he’s far too excited (a doctor he’s a _doctor he’s a doctor_ ) to even fathom going to sleep, but he can’t expect his work-night-shifts-all-the-time friends to share his excitement. For a second his heart stops beating, at the thought that Jonathan is going to go home and they’ll never see each other again – but a single glance at the man by his side, at his smile when they look at each other, makes that idea go away.

“Fancy an evening walk ?” Jonathan asks, and Hermann slowly nods. The four of them finish their drinks (Eva’s barely drunk half of her beer), stand up and exit the bar. It’s not like there are many clients left. It breaks Hermann’s heart every time, but the place has been growing emptier and emptier over the months.

The two pairs part ways, promising each other they’ll meet up another night for more beer-drinking and world-changing discussions. Hermann and Jonathan walk in silence aimlessly for a couple of streets. The heat from the day has left a lingering warmth in the air, but it’s far more bearable than it was five hours ago. The city smells the way cities do in summer, that hot scent of concrete and stone, occasionally swept away by a fresh breeze.

“So how was Brooklyn ? Changed much ?” Hermann’s not sure it’s the right time to ask this question, but he’s been trying to get Jonathan to talk about his youth for years, and it seems like a fairly decent conversation starter.

“I… I didn’t go to Brooklyn.”

“Not at all ?”

“No. I spent five days in New York, met up with Ernst and then left for the North.”

“Why ?”

Jonathan whispers, “I didn’t want them to ask about the grandfather.”

Well, that certainly wasn’t the answer Hermann expected, and he’s trying to decipher exactly what it means by staring at Jonathan, but he’s not letting anything pass through. He just seems lost in thought, trying to gather his words for the questions that are sure to come.

“Right. There’s something I might have to tell you. When we were kids… No, that’s not it. Well, see, my aunt, Abby, she always wears this high-collar. As far as I remember, I've never seen her neck-naked. Those fancy things on dresses, you know, that old lady wears sometimes when they feel particularly highbrow. But her, it was on all occasions.”

Hermann nods. He has no idea where Jonathan’s going with this, but damn is he going to listen.

“I always thought she was a prude until the day I caught aunt Martha and her discussing the subject. They clearly thought Mortimer and I were sound asleep.”

And it’s vivid in Hermann’s mind, the picture of ten-years-old Jonathan (with all the strangeness of such a picture), sitting on the stairs, looking by the window because he couldn’t find sleep- and his little ears catching on hushed tones and words that do not sound like they’re part of an ordinary everyday conversation.

“I climbed up the stairs and got closer to the door. They were in my grandfather’s old laboratory. The door was ajar- they had turned on a small oil lamp and there was some light coming from the space between the door and the frame. The rest of the house was so dark, I felt dragged to that light, you know. Like a bug.”

He shoves his hands in his pocket. Shakes his head. Keeps on.

“Abby was sitting on a chair in a nightgown- her neck, throat, and bosom, they were all bare. It seemed so strange to see her like that. I had sort of forgotten she had skin there. Martha was kneeling in front of her with a twitching expression, talking about _scarring_ and _skin tissue_ and a lot of medical expressions my child brain couldn’t register.”

The street is entirely silent. Hermann has no idea where they are- and he didn’t think it’d be possible, to be so lost in a city he has spent years living in and exploring. Everything is dark around them.

“Abby said, _You told me it would only take two years to heal._ Martha said, _I was wrong. I’m sorry. It seems that third degree burns don’t obey to human rules._ Abby said, _How could he do that ? How could he_ do _that_? Then she started shaking, and Martha finished applying the balm she had been putting on Abigail’s throat, kept nursing the wound with complex operations I didn’t understand- they almost seemed like magic to me. Then she took Abigail in her arms and said _He didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. He’s gone now, he’ll never do anything to you again._ And Abby seemed furious at that point, she pushed her sister away, and I’d never seen her like that, she was crying, she was- she said _He perfectly knew what he was doing, that scum, that- he left for Germany because he was terrified of Jonathan, and because he couldn’t handle shit, and because he- he knew he was going to get in trouble with the police at some point, if he had another breakdown-_

… God, I had never heard her swear before, and it seemed unholy in her mouth, like she had just fallen from heaven. I wasn’t a good kid- never had been, but my small self still saw my aunts as some kind of heavenly goal, some thing I could maybe become one day, if I put in enough effort. After all, Mortimer was good too, as good as an eight-years-old could be, and we had the same genes.”

Jonathan took a deep breath. It hit Hermann hard that he had never seen him talk so much, for so long, give so much of himself away. He must have been rehearsing it, thinking about that confidence he was about to make- he was like that, Jonathan, never showed any part of him before weighing in the pros and cons. Hermann wished he could have told him that the pieces he gave him, he wasn’t going to destroy them ; he could look at them, really look at them, and then give them back to their rightful owner.

“And Martha said _It’s not his fault_ , but she seemed less and less sure, and it showed that they had both been bottling this up for the longest time. Abby, she pushed her hand away, and said _It’s always a grown man’s fault when he throws acid to her daughter because she’s annoyed him_ , and Martha looked away, whispered (and I could barely hear her when she talked so soft) _He wasn’t annoyed, he was terrified, Abby, please_ and Abigail told her _He’s hit you too during his tantrums, you know how he is, how he just thinks himself as some God-sent gift that won’t ever put in the efforts of not hurting people_. And I don’t remember what Martha said, but it was something about being pregnant, about a man, about getting rid of the baby, and then they were both crying and Abby said _He didn’t have the right to do this to me he didn’t have the right to do this to me_ and Martha said _I know_ and I stayed there for a solid half-an-hour but they didn’t look at each other in the eyes once.”

And then he shuts up, and his tale is over.

Hermann can’t begin to register everything he’s been told- what it means for Jonathan, for Herr Brewster, for their lives, for their brains, for the way they work- it doesn’t explain or excuse anything. It just sounds like something Johnny’d been trying to get off his chest for so long. So long. Hermann thinks about the acid, what it means for both Brewster, about how what he’s just heard explains a lot about Brewster’s behavior after Steiner’s death, and he feels himself bubble up with rage because he’s known enough men like him who were trying to police other people’s bodies and bodily functions.

But it’s all so fresh in his head, he feels like it’s only the beginning of a long, very long conversation Jonathan and him need to have about… lots of things. But they have lots of time to have it, now, right ?

So Hermann takes Jonathan’s hand and holds it in his, and they keep on talking, as they walk through the night streets.

 

“There we are. That’s my flat.” Jonathan toys with the keys in his hand, leaning against the doorframe.

“I thought you only arrived this morning ?”

“Yeah. Well, been arranging this with my former landlord. He set it up so it could be free when I arrived.” Jonathan explains.

“Wasn’t that much of a rushed decision, then.”

The man smiles. “I told you it’d been on my minds for months. Figured I might as well have it all planned for when I finally gathered the guts to come back.”

They stand in silence for one, two, three seconds. Hermann’s starting to enjoy those moments more and more ; those instants of peace where they rest in each other’s company, listen to the distant sounds of the night, feel the cool summer air on their cheeks. Not talking. Just… There.

When he turns the keys in the lock and enters his building, he doesn’t offer Hermann to come in. And it breaks his heart at first, until he notices that Jonathan is holding the door for him. Silently. Not asking him anything. Not even speaking. He just locks eyes with Hermann, with a mix of expressions on his face, and he looks so vulnerable, offering something he’s not even sure his former lover wants. Because they haven’t even discussed it- where are they even going with this ?

Hermann lets a bit of time pass by (hesitates for a solid five seconds) before falling in step with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter ! THe conclusion is in the next one. I've also written a prologue and made a lot of changes to the other chapters, so once I've wrapped it up I'll update all chapters ! I encourage you to reread it if you want ^^
> 
> Thanks a lot for the kudos and comments !


	11. Ready (I am ready)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you feel ?

On the first of August, their train leaves.

It’s not another continent (not even another country) they’re going to, only Hamburg -  although it does make Hermann’s heart leap a little, to think that he’s travelling with Jonathan for the first time. It’s barely been two weeks since the man came back, and Hermann has told himself countless times that he won’t allow things to move too fast ; he hopes _just the two of us_ _travelling across the country for a week-end_ doesn’t count as “moving too fast.” Figure out a distance he’s comfortable with, work out his limits.

The reason for the impromptu trip is fairly sensible : a friend of Tina’s friend lives in the center of the harbor city, and told her it was among the only places that was doing alright, economically speaking – when it came to medicine. Said it was worth a try. So there they are, on a one day notice, in a train that takes them north.

Hermann told Jonathan he’d be alright, that it wasn’t worth coming with him. That it was only a matter of two or three days – that he wanted to see it with his own eyes, what the fuss was all about, whether it was actually an option worth considering, before taking a decision. He loves Heidelberg, he really does, but he’s not going to put his life on the line for _that_ love. It’s not like Hamburg’s on another continent, which means that visits are possible ; and there’s a non-negligible possibility Jonathan would follow him, too, were he to move there. (That part he didn’t tell.) I’ll be back to Berlin in no time, he said.

But Jonathan just smiled, paid for both their tickets at the station, and off they were.

 

Now that same man is sleeping (dozing off, more like), against the train window, and Hermann looks at him, as he reviews the list of addresses he’s gathered over the past few days, a short review of the hospitals that might be hiring – he toys with the paper, absent-mindedly goes through it one more time, but his gaze keeps drifting back to the unclenched, appeased face in front of him, unruly locks on his forehead. His hair is grown.

He’d missed this so much, he can barely breathe. How he made it through the last few years is anyone’s guess. Jonathan’s return has put all the rest out of focus, like the sun appearing from behind a hill to the traveler. He’s staring, as the picture prints itself in his retina.

He could get used to a vision like this, every morning, every day, for the rest of his life. And this truth is (these truths are) self-evident : he’s a man, he’s a surgeon, he’s in love with him, and Heidelberg (hell, even Germany as a whole) doesn’t matter, as long as he can work, and they’re together.

 

On the first night, Hermann comes home to a reading Jonathan. He’s been out all day, and can’t feel his legs ; he collapses on bed face first, sliding his fingers between his lover’s when the man comes to sit on the edge of the bed, by his side.

“How did it go ?”

“Not great. All those fucking numbers from our beloved Führer, about employment on the rise and all- they’re window dressing, really. If you’re not working in a factory, building canons under the noses of the French- or shining Hitler’s shoes at the Reichstag, you might as well be still in 1929. _Scheisse_.”

He rolls on his side, fumbles for his bag, takes out a cigarette from his half-finished pack and goes to light it on at the small hotel-room window. You can see the docks from here ; from that square of glass, from which he’s now puffing thin wisps of smoke.

It all makes Jonathan smile. “God, I’m baffled. You swearing ? Being pessimistic ? Smoking ? You’ve changed a great deal.” Hermann’s anxious, and not in the mood for teasing ; he could almost snap at the man for making fun of the situation, but- then he sees Jonathan’s eyes (peaceful, humorous, and the tiniest drop of love, there) and kisses him, instead. He’s not much in the mood for a fight, either.

“I’d forgotten how bad German tobacco tastes,” Jonathan complains after Hermann’s pulled away. “No offence meant to you.” His voice drops, and he adds. “No one in America tasted as good.”

Hermann would want that loving atmosphere from the train to come back, to fill up the room, but right now he’s rewinding his day, and recalling all the closed doors and “no’s”, and it’s not the perfect state of mind for a kissing session ; he couldn’t figure out if it was the -stein at the end of his name that made it so hard to even be admitted for an interview, or if he’ll just have to blame it on the medical unemployment plague two years of Nazism have done nothing against.

Jonathan can sense his lover’s trouble, and quickly drops the flirting to instead look through the window with him, towards the port, as he slides a tender hand across his waist. The man doesn’t move away. “I’m sorry, Johnny,” he finally says. “I still struggle to grasp exactly how bad it is. The situation. As long as I was in school, I could put blinders on and forget, but now…”

“And there’s this rally coming, too, right ? Some law-making ?”

Hermann nods. “And it just gets worse from here. How was it, in the USA ? What’s not-fascism like ? I’ve forgotten.”

“Messy. They call it the Great Depression for a reason, you know ? That hellhole of a country fell hard and we took the whole capitalist world with us- but you surely know about that already. Misery like I’d never seen before. People in the streets, everywhere. But then again, a delinquent’s opinion isn’t the most representative one. I’ve never had much of a soft spot in my heart for US society.”

“And what are you going to do now ? I mean, in the future ?”

It’s a slippery slope if there even was one ; Hermann knows full well that his lover has never had many plans, or at least, not ones that are considered socially acceptable ; but this is a new Jonathan he has in front of him. An almost entirely new person- as if the cards had been shuffled and handed back, over and over, in those six years.

“I don’t know. I really don’t. I thought-“ He shuts up. Hermann waits for him to finish his sentence, feeling that he’s got a difficult thing to say ; but as the silence lasts and lasts, it becomes obvious that there are no more words on their way.

“You thought ?” He’s not trying to force anything.

“Maybe I could be… of some help, to you. I mean. If you have your own consulting room, or if you’re freelance... I could give you a hand. For administration purpose, for instance. I have no diploma, of course, but I know quite a lot about medicine, from you, and from _him_ , and I learn fast, you know.” He’s staring at a little gash in the window frame. Biting his lip. This is the most vulnerable Hermann has ever seen him.

“That’d be incredible.” And he reaches out to grab his lover’s hand ; kiss his knuckles like a scapular. Try to convey how blessed he feels at this exact moment. “Love, you’d do a great job. And I’m going to need someone anyway.”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet, but. Maybe. I think we could work it out.”

“’Course we could,” Hermann laughs. Life hasn’t felt so right in weeks. He’s not just saying that because the idea of spending the rest of his life with Jonathan – o _f Jonathan wanting to spend the rest of his life with him_ – makes his head spin ; he genuinely thinks the man would be of great help. Surgeons need assistance. And diplomas, degrees- they can be earned. After all, he _does_ know a thing or two about medicine, and they both know that when he sets his mind on something, he does it. “Of course.”

 

On the third and last night, they go to eat at a small _Kneipe_ near the docks, which, on their lodger’s opinion, serves the best fish in town. Truth be told, it’s extremely loud, and stinky (has fresh fish always smelt like _that_?), but the food’s decent, and they can share small touches without anyone paying them much attention. So they do – fingers brushing against each other, small smiles, stolen contacts under the table, knees glued together. They spend almost the entire evening in silence, bathing in this newly-found intimacy, imagining, perhaps, a world where they could live loud, and not fear to end up beaten up in a gutter somewhere, at best, with no one to help them get back on their feet.

But for now they don’t. And at every gaze in their direction, they immediately part. Surviving. They’ve grown good at this, each of them for different reasons, and in different ways.

In the train back to Berlin, they both sleep sound and deep.

*****

When September comes around, everything starts happening at once. He’s all over the place, up at 7 A.M and back home sometimes late in the night. The air is filled with an atmosphere of rush, of danger- like living in a perpetual arson.

Maybe it has something to do with that new flag high and proud on every building of the city. It surrounds everything like a dark, heavy cloud – blurs everything. Perhaps also with all the professors and students who have been evicted from University in those two years ; they ought to count themselves lucky, somehow, that they didn’t get to see how the tall flames of the autodafes in the University Square look in the sunset. It’s a much less beautiful sight than it sounds. The gold carvings on the front entrance, they don’t shine as bright as they used to, now that they say _The German Spirit,_ instead of the historic _The Living Spirit_ motto _._

Those brightly red flags, they swallow everything. A square, damp mouth, ready to bite, with those white circles and black crosses, like a set of fangs.

And Hermann keeps looking for work. He can’t believe it ; what would his ten-years-old self think, seeing him a surgeon and everything he’s ever dreamt of – and so sad, so shameful ?

But he’s not going to give up, or let anything stand in his way. That’s what he tells himself every time his heart climbs in his throat, when he passes by members of the Party with that stupid cross flag on their arms- that’s what he tells himself, when the hospital directors quirk an eyebrow at his name, looking for a suspicious crook on his nose, or for little children in his bag- that’s what he tells himself, and it doesn’t always work.

God, at least Jonathan is there. They still have one flat each, and Hermann wants to keep it that way ; sure, it’s been a month and a half, almost two, but he’s still terrified of waking up one day to a cold bed, even though it’s been six years. Now and then, that night comes back to haunt him.

Some evenings sleep just won’t come to him, and Jonathan and he chain-smoke until sunrise, until the ashtray is full (they’re his lover’s cigarettes more than his own ; himself, he likes to smoke slow, taste each drag as if he was about to go on the electric chair). Some nights, Jonathan can’t sleep, and he whispers in hushed tones about the look on Steiner’s face when he cut his throat, or about what acid-burnt flesh looks and _smells_ like, and Hermann squeezes his hand, tries not to let his mind wander too much at all the others young Nazis (just like Steiner, except they’re alive) who are spreading like ants all over the country. He thinks of the two loud young men who asked him for his ID earlier, just for fun, and pretended to arrest him for a good laugh, before letting him go after a good hour of teasing ; he thinks of all the scenarios that went through his head during this hour _they’re going to take me away oh my god they know they’ll lock me up they’ll beat the hell out of me they’ll kill me oh my God_. How, were he to still be alive, Steiner could perfectly have been one of them.

*

“You’re not going to the rally ?”

What used to be a funny joke between them doesn’t sound so much like one, now that everyone seems to be taking it seriously. Hermann knows a handful of fellow doctors who are actually attending it – the seventh annual gathering of the Party, year of the lord 1935. It starts in a couple of days, on the 10th or the 11th, if he recalls well. As much as he’d like not to waste any memory storage on that date, he can’t help it.

It’s in Nuremberg. Not far from his hometown. He wonders what his parents think about all this. His mother, if she hasn’t changed in fifteen years, she’ll be _delighted_ to be able to hear her fascist, horrible opinions broadcasted everywhere in the country- that Goebbels guy sure knows how to make microphones work. His father, Hermann doesn’t know what he thinks of all this. Probably says nothing, stays quiet. Their house must be so full of silence. They’ve lost two children ; a son and a _daughter_. (Two sons, really, but they can’t be expected to know that). There’s no way any sound could be louder than this absence.

That’s an important thing, this rally- everyone keeps talking about those new concepts that are everywhere on the posters and on the radio, German Blood, German Honour… Riefenstahl will be there, at the meeting. Naturally she will. In a month or two the pretty little movie she’ll have done of this mess will be all over the theaters. _Rally of Freedom_ , the gathering from this year is called. That makes a swell title, in Hermann’s opinion. The two men used to joke about it too – those fancy buzzwords the propagandists keep coming up with. Now they don’t. They go on with their lives, or at least try to- doing their best not to pay much attention to the white noise. But on September the 15th, something is announced.

A Reichtag session has just been held, this morning, on the Nazi party rally grounds (the first Parliament session to be held outside of the actual building, if Hermann’s not mistaken). By 3 P.M, it’s already broadcasted everywhere (by express degree of Propaganda Minister Goebbels), on each radio program in Germany.

That day, Jonathan and Hermann stay by the radio the entire time, listening. As it turns out, anger expresses itself in different ways – a wonderful case study : Jonathan as a twitching knot of nerves, who seems to have to remind himself coming back was a good decision five times per minute ; Hermann as a shrinking mass of despair, fighting the temptation to bury his face in his hands, to rip his ears off to remove himself from this reality.

_“-the Jewish problem ; a problem, which, if this proved a failure, would have to be entrusted by law to the National Socialist Party for a definitive solution-”_

“They’re chanting,” Jonathan whispers. “You hear them ?”

“Ah, that’s true, you’ve never been to a rally.” Hermann lets out a small laugh – meant as cynical, but it comes out as more pathetic than anything else. “The Nazis have been having them for years, but it wasn’t until, I don’t know, 1930 that they started attracting the masses. Now you can’t go a month without hearing about what a wonderful speech Rosenberg gave last week, or how good Magda looked in her black dress. Remember when we thought Steiner and his clique were being too loud in the corridors ?”

None of this is even remotely funny. He laughs. Keeps laughing. “God, it’s so much fun. Listen to them. They’re having the time of their life. Planning a country where we’re gone for good. Or dead. Or both.”

“You seem to have had a _lot_ of fun the past few years.”

“It’s not funny, Johnny.” Considering that he’s still chuckling, he’s not really convincing ; but it’s sheer nervousness that triggers it. And it’s obvious. “Fuck, you- you don’t- this is my home. My country. Heidelberg, I’ve never pictured myself anywhere else. And the moment I get my degree, they… they’ve been _killing_ people, taking them away, that Dachau thing they’ve built, it could happen to-”

And those small display of closeness still feels somewhat foreign when coming from Jonathan, but he reaches out to Hermann’s chest and holds him against him.

“You know I’ve come back for a lot of reasons, Hermann. And I’m not leaving you any time soon. I’ve told you that. But you have to get away. You have to _really_ think this through. Whether it’s worth staying. Whether it’s really the best solution.”

_“-moved by the understanding that purity of German blood is the essential condition for the continued existence of the German people, and inspired by the inflexible determination to ensure the existence of the German nation for all time-”_

“Oh, _God_ ”, Hermann sighs. He holds the man’s hand tight against his.

_“The Reichstag has unanimously adopted the following law, which is promulgated herewith :”_

And then it begins.

*

A _Mischling._ A mix. That’s what he is. What they say he is, from now on. That’s funny, they’ve always told him that he was an in-between : mix between girl and boy (even though he’s not) ; now, mix between Jew and human being. Funny. Now all of it is enshrined in the law. It’s not very funny.

 _Mischling zweiten Grades_ , if he wants to be specific. And in the incoming months, he’ll have to be, because you sure as Hell don’t get treated the same if you have one Jew grandparent or two. Not that he plans on revealing that to any authority representative, but… The second-class hybrids, no one gives them much thought, so maybe he’ll pass through the net.

At least he’s still a citizen, even though he only partly belongs to the German race. He guesses that’s something you ought to be grateful for. To be considered human by the country you live in. But he’s also a thought-to-be-a-girl man, and who’s attracted to men, and who’s going out with a mentally unstable man, and both of them could be considered to have Communist tendencies. Are you still human with all that ? Or is it too much ?

The schnapps bottles seem to be emptying themselves a touch too quickly, these days. Not a good thing. Autumn arrived early, this year. The rain has been falling all week, even though it’s not even October yet. Hermann’s on his way to the store, to buy more schnapps (he ran out of alcohol the night before, after an especially painful introspection session). He doesn’t notice it until he’s halfway through the aisles. And then he does.

Lothar.

He hasn’t shaved that thin mustache of his. It still makes him look handsome and dignified, if not a bit old, now that it’s started greying. What must he be, now, forty ? Outside the rain is pounding on the metal roof of the store, but the man’s undisturbed, keeps looking at the tag of an expensive wine bottle, as if wanting to pierce a hole through it with his eyes alone. In his right hand, a crumpled piece of paper ; in the left, a Schloss Eltz 1920.

Hermann doesn’t move, as if Lothar was a fawn he’d chase away with too quick a move. Of course, Lothar still ends up noticing him. There are not that many clients in the store, so he’s easy to spot, that stranger at the other end of the aisle who stares at him the way the French probably looked at the rise of the Nazi Party. With utter disbelief and obvious shock.

“Are you lost, sir ?” he asks, and just like that Hermann knows ; Lothar has genuinely no idea who he is. Maybe it’s the mustache he now wears too, and the sharpened feature that have been reshaping his face since the last time they saw each other ; or maybe it’s only the unbalanced power dynamics between them ; one of them is but a one-night-stand of many, the other is the man whose running mouth almost destroyed Hermann’s life. No wonder he doesn’t recognize him.

“You look familiar, that’s all,” Hermann ends up answering, speaking slowly, and with a voice he’d forgotten having.

Lothar (what is even his last name ?) shrugs, with an obvious attempt to look at least slightly apologetic – when it’s obvious he just wants to get out of here. Hermann’s eyes are drawn to the paper in his hand, in a desperate attempt to continue the conversation.

A Nazi leaflet.

“Damn glad they got the reins of Germany, right ? Will make it great again in no time.” Hermann doesn’t know why he says that. Everything is a blur. The words hurt his lips even to utter. Rewind six years and he was under this man’s fingers, grounded in his own body, roaming Lothar’s like the finished version of what he was becoming.

Lothar’s face suddenly brightens up, visibly much more at ease in that conversation than in the common small talk he was expecting from Hermann.

“You mean the Party ? Sure thing they will. Two bright young fellows gave that to me in front of the store. Could have said I was already more than convinced, but I didn’t want to darken up the mood. They seemed so enthusiastic.”

Hermann’s mouth tastes like lead. “What does it say ? I don’t think they’ve given me that one.”

“Oh, it’s not an official one _per se_ ,” Lothar keeps on. “The Führer’s men, they no longer lower themselves to handing that kind of poorly-elaborated papers. No, it must be some _Hitlerjunge_ boys making zeal. A nice initiative, if a bit childish. This one’s about the sums invested in institutions for the mentally deficient. A terrible thing, all this money lost on them.”

“Jolly.” He can’t breathe. “May I have a look ?” Everything spins.

“Why, sir, keep it if you want. Don’t think I could learn many things there.” Lothar hands it to him as if it was the most gracious gift in the world. Then smiles. “So, recalled where you know me from ? I’m sorry to say that your face is most unknown to me.”

Hermann should probably look him in the eyes, to find the slightest trace of bad faith, of lying, but- he’s too tired for that. There is no trace of deception in the man’s voice, and that’s enough. More than enough.

“Not the slightest idea.” The smiles he forces is fairly convincing. At least that’s what he tells himself as he tips his hat and walks away, the leaflet crumpled in his clenched, shaking fist.

 

The same night, he calls Tina and invites her out for a walk ; the streets are loud and crowded, full of workers enjoying the summer rays after a long day at work. He needs to talk, and he needs to see her, and he needs to breathe some fresh air. The air is not so fresh as it is damp, with all the rain from the day, but at least it doesn’t taste like dust and burnt food, the way his apartment does. As usual, they end up near the Maulbeerweg, and, as usual, turn left and head for a drink at the bar. Like gravity, they always end up dragged up there, to escape from the world for some time. Hours don’t pass there ; they’re traded, as on the Styx. Its busy, bright atmosphere keeps the outside out, and you never really know what you’re going to find when you leave.

As they walk up the street, they begin to notice a whispering, inquisitive crowd, that isn’t usually there.

This is not good.

They both jostle their way through the rubberneckers, getting more frantic and nervous at every frightened face they see. A sound seems to come from the bar. Breaking glass, loud voices, something like heels stomping the pavement.

Soldiers are there. Or the police ; those days they’re hard to tell apart. (In uniform. Those piece of fabric, funny how they were usually meant to tell people apart, right ? Hierarchy. Unit. Now they all blend together to make Berlin seem like a giant, permanent military _defile_. Expect there’s nothing to celebrate.) It’s no small group, the way it usually is – a handful of rabble-rousers who came to beat up some queers. Today they are almost twenty, and they seem to know what they’re doing.

No one is doing anything to stop them.

Hermann nervously scans the crowd, looking for the owner’s face, but he is nowhere to be seen. After a good twenty seconds of searching, he finally locates the tall, bearded figure of the man he’s spent so many late nights with. He’s not trying to stop the soldiers, not screaming, not kicking, not doing anything ; he’s not even in the front row. He’s just a face in the crowd (albeit a furious, barely contained one, features distorted by rage) who doesn’t look away from the men once, not even to blink.

Hermann doesn’t call out his name. He feels a pang of helplessness pool in his guts, but he says nothing. He says nothing. He says nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

A few people in the mob have black eyes and open lips. One is sitting on the sidewalk, a few meters away, holding a red-stained fabric against the left side of his face.

The soldiers put a heavy wood bar against the block, closing the entrance. The inside is dark, but one can still distinguish what has happened ; the chairs are all over the place, there is shattered glass on the floor. The few bottles left on the shelves look like the frightened, guilt-ridden surviving soldiers of a massacre.

The men shove away people from the crowd and leave. Two stay behind and give a few kicks in the guts of a lumped figure, in a corner of the bar, that Hermann hadn’t noticed. He feels a hand grab his own, take him away from the scenery. It’s exactly as it was in the store with Lothar. None of that is real. None of that is happening. None of that is- Tina holds his hand tight, doesn’t let go. He tries to tell her that everything will be okay, but the words won’t come out of his mouth.

He says nothing. He says nothing. He says nothing.

After a few minutes, though, he does. He takes his hand away from Tina’s, tells her that it’ll be alright. That he needs to rest a little. That he’ll call her tomorrow. He tells her to go home right now and to be safe, because he may be drowning in a bottomless ocean of unreality, but he won’t let people die or be hurt. The Hippocratic oath, right ? Help or do no harm. A doctor, before he’s anything else. But in that moment he’s nothing much at all, really. Not even a man.

He starts walking quickly, not really knowing where he’s going, his head dizzy and heavy. Then he turns on his heels and decides to go take one last look at the ruins of the bar, in search for some potential wounded people he could help. But the scene is empty. They are all gone. Even the one who was lying on the floor. It’s certainly the most rational decision. He doesn’t blame them.

He’s so busy looking for casualties, he doesn’t notice the two uniformed men from earlier – the one who stayed behind to _finish the work_ – walking towards him. They’re not quiet, though ; when he spots them, they’re laughing and talking about a heavily gay-coded advertisement poster for the bar that Hermann and a friend of his had designed some weeks back, featuring two men holding hands in a very manly, National-Socialist way, and looking at each other with heart eyes. The mention that now decorates it (“ _DEGENERATE FAGGOTS_ ” in red capital letters) leaves nothing to the imagination.

“Hey, you !”

He freezes. First error. There isn’t a second one, really- no time for that. They’re already on his heels, surrounding him, and his brain, short-circuited on stress and grief, can’t find an escape route quick enough.

“Saw you hanging around quite a few times, huh ?” They’re both fairly tall, and although they’re not very well-built, they have batons hanging at their belts. He registers all the information he can, as quick as he can, because he knows that in no time he won’t be able to think much.

He doesn’t answer. He’s been in close calls like this a couple of times, when walking home in the few hours before sunrise… Loud drunkards, mobs of shaved-head men, bullies like the ones he had in middle school, only older, and with less imaginative insults. Recently, they’ve grown uniforms, too.

“Answer me, you fucking freak !”

The other one barges in. Pushes him back with a strong slap in the face – Hermann only keeps his balance by a providential step backwards. Lucky he isn’t carrying any bag ; it might make the oncoming fight a little less unbalanced ; his fists act on their own, clench tight. His palms are damp under his fingers.

“Too bad for you the bar’s gone ! How’re you going to find other fags, now, huh ?”

The first one laughs, closes his fingers around Hermann’s shirtneck, and shoves him against the nearest wall. The other one spits in his eye.

“Abomination. A big gang of degenerates, the whole lot of you ! We’ll line you up and gut you like cattle, subhuman fucking _freak_ !”

They’re not laughing. They were laughing when they started talking, but now they both have this violent ring in their voice that make Hermann’s knees weak. Fight or flight. Fight or flight or freeze, and right now he can’t even move-

The leg of the second one (all covered in thick leather from his uniform boots) suddenly stretches out and kicks him in the knees ; he falls, manages to bite his tongue quick enough to swallow out his scream. His arms instantly go to his head. He’s never been in a fight before (if that pathetic beating up even counts out as one), never in a _real_ fight where two people wanted to beat the hell out of him ; but he read somewhere that as long as you protect your skull not much can happen to you. _When you punch_ , Jonathan once said, _keep your fingers out of your fists. If you don’t, they’ll get broken by the impact_. Sure thing. A most useless piece of advice, dares he say ; he doesn’t think he’ll have an opportunity to punch them anyway. The second kick comes in his stomach and he stops counting right afterwards.

The tenth one breaks his knees, the fiftieth one breaks his ribs, the hundredth one breaks every single bone in his body, and he doesn’t even know who is beating him, or how many people they are. He hates how weak he looks, how weak he feels, how weak he is, curled up like a wingless fly at the hands of a child. His small insect hands cling to his skull as if his life depended on it. He doesn’t know if it does.

Eventually, it stops. They say something – he doesn’t hear what. They leave. The street is empty. He hears nothing. Only the pulsing beat of his veins, as blood rushes to his entire body, loud like a thousand drums. What a marvelous thing instinct is. Already every cell of his organism is doing whatever it takes to keep him alive.

Let’s see  ; he’s a medicine stude// _graduate_. He can do his own check-up. Head. Is everything alright there ? Did they even hit his head ? Don’t move a wounded man before the doctor comes. He guesses the doctor’s already there. Inch by inch, he tries to move. Gets up to his feet, using the wall as a clutch. His heart is still beating. His vision is a bit blurry, and he can’t open his left eye, but- he can see. Hear, too. The pain in his ribs makes him wince as he walks. But he can walk. Stumble, more like. But at least he’s able to move on his own.

So that’s what he does. Limps his way through the street, on a course he knows by heart by now, from having crossed it so many times ; from the bar to his flat. The pain makes it somewhat harder, but he’ll manage. He’s a survivor, before anything else. Or what was it, already ?

 

Of course, he could have run all the way to Jonathan and his soothing, almighty fists, but what was the point ? He’s somehow in love and most certainly fascinated and captivated by the man, but he also is every inch as sickly proud as ever. Knows how to sport a black eye or a bruised cheek, knows how to carry that bleeding nose like a man.

It hurts like hell, sure, and he has to stop his fall once or twice with the help of a godsend brick wall or some streetlight. But he makes it to his apartment alright, ready to wear that smug know-it-all smile of his the minute Jonathan would step in. Too proud even for that, he is. Jonathan's arms would have been too sweet a shelter right now, and he fears to feel himself soften and crumble. Only by this bravado act can he learn tricks to make it on his own.

Maybe deep down he also fears Jonathan's reactions to displays of weakness. He fears he will scare him away, of course, the big man not being much of a sucker for weaklings, but most of all he’s afraid Jonathan will pity him. Sure, the thought sounds as absurd to Hermann as, say, Jonathan cuddling with his grandfather, but the idea of being merely tolerated in his weak moments is already more realistic, and he can’t have any of that. Once made comfortable in the deeps by the man he so deeply cares about, he knows he would never find the strength to ever lift himself back up.

 

He stopped the testosterone injections ten months ago, and the visits to his doctor three years before or so. When he realized that by then he knew more about the effects of hormones, and the dosage needed, than virtually any doctor he could find. Hormones, when they’re taken for too long, are dangerous, it seems. And the operation of internal sexual organs removal he had in 1930, while not being _the_ surgery, stopped the estrogen flows his stubborn body kept insisting on producing. He hasn’t noticed much changes, since he stopped the injections ; some fatigue at first, some changes in the way his facial hair grows, a little flesh redistribution around his hips, not much else. As if, after years of lectures to his body about the way it was supposed to work, it had finally learnt its lesson.

But right now, Hermann would give everything he owns for one last testosterone shot. He guesses he _could_ do it, even though he perfectly knows he shouldn’t, for his savings’ sake, for his organism’s sake, and for his mental health’s, too. He craves that rush of blood to his leg when the needle breaks skin ; the soreness in his thigh, afterwards ; the hunger, the lust it gave him, the sense of absolute strength, for days on end ; the knowledge that he was a step closer to what he wanted to be than he was three weeks before. That he was, in the eyes of society, more than a man than yesterday, and that every new tomorrow would bring more serum in his veins.

As he lies on his bed (climbing the stairs was _torture_ , but one does what one must do), holding a pack of ice against his face, trying to gather the strength to go take a shower and count his wounds, he wishes he could grab a needle and inject some him-ness in his veins, in his muscles ; it felt like this, at every shot, like he was correcting society’s error, nature’s error, and affirming himself, in the most beautiful way, at his core. He wishes he could steady his hands and know exactly what he needs to do. The testosterone and Heidelberg used to be the two constants in his life. Now that he left both of them behind, he’s terrified to find himself gazing at the void under his feet, without any safety net.

Well, Jonathan could be somehow considered a safety net. But he promised himself never to count on his presence when he falls, just to spare himself the pain of disappointment, in case – _in case_ – the man wasn’t.

 

The next day, there’s a letter from Karla waiting for him in the mail. She’s getting married. She’d been talking to him about that man she was seeing, and said she was considering it, but- it’s still a little punch to Hermann’s guts. She should have done… He’s not going to say _more_ , but at least _different_. He never expected her in that Epinal print of the housewife. After years of correspondence, he thought he’d gotten to know her more than that. He thought… He thought she was going to kick over the traces at last minute, remember this was not what she had bargained for. But she didn’t. And on the picture she sends him, she seems happy. Genuinely so.

He also has to admit that he always suspected she leant more towards women than towards men ; something in the way she looked at some girls during their school years. But maybe he read all the signs wrong. After all, they never talked about it. Or maybe she likes both.

 _At least that one’s not a Nazi_ , he thinks, with a sigh of relief, when he gets to the part when she tells him how scared they are of the new Party in power, but that in the village where they’ve settled, almost everyone despises the Führer. He goes from the letter to the picture, over and over again, scans both of their faces, her bright white dress, his dark suit, and he wonders-

He wonders if that could have been him, in her place, in the photograph. A pretty dress, a straight man at his arm, both parents attending the wedding with tears of joy in their eyes.

It was what everyone expected of him, wasn’t it ?

But when he looks in the mirror (and it’s been this way for years now) he sees no trace of that young girl everyone saw in him. His own face and Karla’s smiling one don’t, can’t blend on the picture ; they overlap, unable to fit together, as if from different worlds. Different universes.

Karla looks so happy. The only remaining trace of her illness is a leg slightly shorter than the other. On the photograph, one wouldn’t even notice it, where it not for the imperceptible imbalance of her knees. The right one a few inches below the left. It takes a doctor’s eye to notice.

He immediately sits at his desk, takes out his quill, and start answering to her.

 

His face is slowly going back to normal. But something inside of him is gone. Tina and Jonathan (the only two people he sees those days, to be honest) call him from times to times, but he can’t find it in him to answer. It’s like those days when he lived under the threat of Richter’s letters ; nothing feels as safe as the thin sheets of his bed, and the stove on which he regularly warms up something hot to drink, just enough to not pass out. He knows he’ll have to answer them, eventually. Especially Jonathan. But he wants to delay that moment ; inaction makes him feel like he doesn’t have to take a decision just yet, when really, every morning, he decides that he’s going to stay in Germany ; locking himself up is just as much of a choice as would be taking the first boat to Morocco.

 

They meet a week after.

Hermann thought he’d crumble, upon seeing Jonathan- upon letting him see his face distorted by the punches, black eye and swollen cheeks. He thought he’d fall in his arms and cry as hard as he could, he thought he’d be weak and pathetic. But it’s as if somehow he pictured this scene so many times in his head, that it doesn’t scare him anymore ; and instead of crumbling down, he welcomes Jonathan with a wide smile, and is able to drag him in a long, deep kiss, before whispering to his ear :

“Happy birthday.”

Now he did expect Jonathan to be surprised, but probably not _that_ surprised. “What are you talking about ?”

“It’s your birthday. Today. 29th of September. Remember ? You’re 25 today. You child !” He laughs.

“No. It’s not. It’s- it’s not my birthday, Hermann.”

The doctor frowns. “You told me on the New Year’s Eve we spent together, though. I wrote it down afterwards.”

Jonathan seems to be making a supreme memory effort. “Are you sure ?”

“I am.”

“Oh.”

And then they both laugh, and kiss, and fall in each other’s arms, and over each other, too- those are the perks of meeting at their apartments. They can dwell in affection and physical closeness without anyone barging in. Well, no one has, so far. The new government is sure as hell planning on doing that ; the two Nazis who beat him up, they made sure to remind him of that fact. That they’re not safe anymore, not even behind close doors. _No_. He doesn’t want to think about that right now.

“I brought you something.”

He manages to escape Jonathan’s kisses long enough to fumble through his bag, and takes out a small object, nicely wrapped in golden paper. The man’s wide hands open it slowly, treating it like something holy, almost. It makes Hermann’s heart swell and glow.

It’s a picture of the two of them. The one they took just before Jonathan left. The only one they have together. They don’t look that much younger on the photo, even though six years have gone by. Probably because they were so deep in worry, at the time, so swallowed in their own trouble, that it made them seem several years older. Looking at it makes Hermann shivers, and it’s a good feeling, to remember all the time they’ve known each other. Almost nine years. He can read on Jonathan’s face that he feels it too- that they haven’t been that close in a very long time. Their hands find each other and they smile.

The other gift is a bit more special, and Hermann’s so nervous, he can’t look anywhere in Jonathan’s direction. He’s afraid he’s gone too far.

It’s a plate. A silver, square, engraved plate. He’s had it done in a small craft shop next to his old flat. It’s not the most expensive, but it looks very neat, very precise. Four lines of text ; on top, in English and German : _Artzpraxis_. _Medical consulting room._ And below, their two names, in a smaller font. _Hermann Einstein. Jonathan Brewster._

Jonathan holds the cold metal piece in his hands, grazes it, as if dealing with a century-old art piece. He reaches for Hermann’s hand. Then looks at him. And looks at his lover’s hand in his, too, at his fingers, tracing the lines of his palms. They say that everything is written there. Future. Past. Death. Life. Love. He kisses him.

Hermann would like to drop his luggage in that kiss. It’s a strange feeling, that would make him laugh if he wasn’t so deep buried in the moment- he’d like to live there for the rest of his life. To settle down in the touch of Jonathan’s lips against his, of Jonathan’s fingers against his neck. Right now, right now, he doesn’t think there’s anywhere in life past this point.

But the kiss breaks ; everything does, at some point ; “each man kills the thing he loves”, someone once said. A poem, if he recalls well, or a ballad. And it kept on, “the coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword.”

None of this feels like cowardice or like death ; the polar opposite ; the absolute courage of life, of a life of fighting and running. Of saying yes, and saying no. At this exact second, he’d say yes to anything Jonathan would ask him. Nothing else matters, nothing ; the six years they spent apart, the Nazis, the world. Jonathan is there, and that is the sheer absurdity of life, and there is nothing more to be said. The _yes_ is at his lips, invading his mouth, even when there is no question to answer to.

 

“She’s _what_?”

Tina’s smile is apologetic, almost ; as if she was trying to pretend she was sorry when it’s obvious it’s among the best news she’s ever received. She called him this morning to tell him she had something to say ; the moments they spend together are rarely light-hearted or peaceful, those days. They quickly talked about the bar when they met, but rapidly changed subject.

“Pregnant. Eva’s pregnant, Hermann.”

“From whom ?”

She rolls her eyes. It looks like once having had an uterus doesn’t make him any less oblivious to the obvious.

“From me, stupid. It just… happened. But now that we know it’s on the way- we’re not going to stay here a day longer.”

“But- but it’s going to be terrible,” Hermann squeaks. “What are you going to do ? Get married ? Think they’ll give you the free furniture too, bless your home as long as you can perform a convincing enough goose-step ?” He’d heard about the law when it was passed, somewhere last year- as long as the mother was willing to give up any outside occupation she might have and stay at home, the government lent them cash to help fill up the house. Which one of them would have stayed at home, anyway ? It’s almost as if the Nazi government didn’t take into account the possibility of same-sex couples. Incredible. “She’ll be just like a single mother to society, and, and don’t you think you have enough problems to deal with ?”

Tina’s face turns cold, and her eyes looks up at him, dark and angry. Her fingers crash the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. You don’t see women smoking in the streets anymore, the way it was during the Weimar Republic. Too masculine. Too daring. Too independent. You wouldn’t want to damage a womb able to breed beautiful Aryan children. “You think it makes a single fucking difference in the way they treat us ? You think we’re at any more of a risk of being murdered ?”

“Well, yes, I do. _Germany_ isn’t the problem for people like us- the entire world is !”

“Hah. Says the one who got beat up next to a bar for _daring_ to appear in public under a damn fascist regime.”

“It’s nothing- it’s not that big of a deal. Really. If you could just see things differently-“

“God, look at yourself. They could have _killed_ you in that alley, Hermann, killed you, and there wouldn’t have been a _single_ politician in this _godforsaken_ country that would have raised a _finger_ to get your rotting body out of here ! How can you _say_ that Germany is not the problem ?”

Her voice is trembling with rage, and she looks at him, and she looks _hurt_. Really hurt. Hurt like someone who looks for support and finds none- she’s angry at him the same way he was angry at Jonathan, six years ago, in the first weeks of this bottomless loneliness.

Because he knows that Germany is the problem. Of course it is. Which is not to say they’ll find Heaven on Earth just by crossing the Rhin- they were born in a world that will never understand them, but there are countries where they at least have the right to live, although silently, and with a tilted head. Of course Germany is the problem, or at least a good part of it. Of course everyone in the government wants them to die a slow and painful death, wants them to burn and never stain the German soil with their bodies.

“Tina, I don’t want to leave,” he whispers. Not a doctor anymore, not the soothing, assured voice that is expected of him. Just a scared mess of a human being, trapped between the exact same thoughts since he graduated, making his way through the labyrinth ; he has no guarantee the rope he holds so tightly in his fist leads back to the light, but it’s the only thing he has right now, and every day sees him growing more and more scared he’s only walking his way deeper to the core.

“Me neither, Hermann.” He knows she understands. Her father is Italian, but she was born and bred here, contrary to Eva, who lived most of her life in Russia. He knows Germany is as much of a home to her as it is for him, and she’s the only person in his life right know that understands.

“When do you leave ?” His voice is low and hurt.

“The day after tomorrow.”

He thinks it long and hard. Remembers that winter day when Jonathan left, remembers the emptiness and the pain that invaded his heart. Now he’s no longer alone, but he has to constantly remind himself of that fact.

“I’d rather bid farewell to you now.” He can’t look at her in the eye. “I’m not good with goodbyes.”

The feeling of her palm against his is soft and comforting, but doesn’t warm him up a single bit. It’s all there is, and he has to learn to live with it.

“I’ll get us some beer. I think we have a lot of talking to do.”

 

The Neckar stretches out under the two men’s feet. It’s Hermann who called, half-drunk on a bottle (or was it two ?) of schnapps. Tina left and Eva left and nothing made sense anymore. As soon as he heard the voice at the other end of the line, he told him that they’d meet where they’d spent their 1st of January, all those years back. Both of them knew perfectly what he was talking about. And now here they are. In silence. It’s October, and the river is littered with the fallen leaves, from all the trees that surround the riverbanks. Hermann’s mouth feels heavy with alcohol. He has no idea what time it is. 4 A.M, or something, probably. It’s starting to be too damn cold to stay outside at such ungodly hours.

“Flows all the way to Mannheim. Throws itself in the Rhin. An impressive river it is, that Necker, isn’t it ? From the Black Forest and then north, north, under our feet. 15 000 square kilometers it was, that it covers ?”

“14 000,” Jonathan corrects.

“14 000. Can you imagine it ? It’d deserve a damn medal. I couldn’t swim for that long even if my life depended on it.”

“Well, the people who named it perfectly knew that.” Jonathan passes a leg above the guardrail, sits on it. He looks so peaceful there. Like a child swinging his legs above the dark waters. Daring danger, but not too much- one step at a time. “You know what the name means ? _Nik_. Wild, relentless. That’s what it means, in some very old language. Then it became _Nicarus_ , and there it is. Neckar.”

“Incredible.” Hermann means it. “How do you even know so much about the city ?”

“Got wistful, sometimes, across the pond,” he confesses with a half-smile at the corner of his lips. “I stumbled upon a nice book about the main German rivers in a second-hand bookstore.”

They both laugh. It’s silly, but at the same time it helps them breathe.

“Jonathan, I’m leaving.”

He’s spoken in German. It’s peculiar. They both know it is. It’s not that the USA-born-and-bred man’s level in Goethe’s tongue is bad (he’s made some terrific progress over the years), but… they always talk in English, nowadays. Hermann’s voice is different when he speaks his native tongue. Softer. Deeper. He’s another man entirely, with a confidence he never fully displays in Shakespeare’s language.

“Where to ?”

“I don’t know.”

A swan passes under them. Then a second one, then a third one.

“At least you had the decency to tell me _viva voce_. I can’t believe I could do that to you- leave you with only a letter. I’m so sorry.”

Hermann shakes his head. The times he resented Jonathan have passed. He’s not going to deny he used to be beaten by anger, of course ; but you can only cry so long over spilled milk. A year, a year  and a half is probably considered long enough.

“I’m not even sure I want to leave. But it’s… It’s just that I don’t know what else to do.”

“Well, I’m leaving too.”

Hermann’s heart leaps. “You’re… ?”

Jonathan passes back his legs across the barrier and, with a small jump, goes back to the riverbank. He rubs his hands against his trousers, and start walking.

“No. _No_. You can’t do that. What the _hell_ , Johnny ? What does this _mean_?”

“Come with me.”

“ _What_ ?”

“Come with me. We can go to England. London seems nice. I know a guy that lived there for a few months ; the community’s striving. And I’m sure there’s plenty of employment. Plus, you already speak English.”

It’s a bit too much for Hermann to process right now. He said he was leaving because he’s been thinking about this for weeks on end, but- there is Jonathan, making it a reality, and right now. Putting it in shape with his words. It’s terrifying. As if he was already standing on the deck. His heart leaps up to his throat. He remembers everything that’s happened since he graduated, how none of it happened like he thought it would. Drifting between pessimistic talks about the future with Jonathan and pessimistic talks about the past with Tina, during the entire month of September. He remembers all of it and swallows.

“OK.”

Jonathan’s head turns instantly towards him.

“OK ?”

“Yeah. I’ll follow you. England. Why not ?”

Jonathan (as usual) takes out a cigarette, lights it on. He always does that- busy his hands so as not to be seen shaking. He did the same when Hermann told him about the beating. Tried to pretend he wasn’t scared shitless by the perspective of it ever happening again to the man he loved. That’s when he told it to Hermann for the first time ; the L word, the big one. There it was. Dropped in a heated conversation about what could have happened had those Nazi trash been a little more heavy-handed.

Hermann closes his hands around the lit match to help him- the cold, Autumn wind doesn’t do much good to the flame.

“Why not ?” Jonathan repeats. They then remain in silence until Hermann decides it’s time to go home.

 

He’s been there before.

They’ve been there before.

Trying to find sleep when he damn knows there’s no chance he will. He doesn’t know why they pretend, both of them lying in bed in silence. They have to get up around 8, the day after. Or the same morning, actually. It must already be well past 3 A.M. Their boat leaves early, and their suitcases are heavy.

It all went so fast. Not that they had much luggage to begin with. Jonathan, he always travels light, and Hermann… He spent hours in his room, trying to decide what he wanted to take with him, what of all those years in the city was deemed important enough to be taken to England. But nothing caught his eye. He grabbed an object, looked at it, trying to remember important memories attached to it- but nothing. From time to time, a slight pang of nostalgia entered his heart (the ticket of that _Metropolis_ movie he saw when he arrived in Heidelberg, his first testosterone prescription, the letters from Karla, the one from Jonathan when he left for the USA) ; this he carefully packs up in a brown kraft envelope to carry with him.

The suitcase that’s lying in Jonathan’s apartment’s entrance isn’t heavy. In addition to the envelope and the entirety of his savings, he’s packed half a dozen of shirts and undershirts, his two suits, the hat Magda offered him in high school, his flask, a surgical case, some grooming items, a handful of notebooks. And his diploma. And his birth certificate. The right one.

It all went so fast. A week or so. He told no one- who would he tell it to ? Tina and Eva are gone. Fritz is away. Karla is away.

Soon he’ll be too. He can almost feel the sea wind on his face. Almost smell the crispy fragrance of the ocean spray.

Now, lying in bed, trying to keep his heart inside his ribcage, he thinks about Eugen.

He dreamt of him, the night before. It started as the cadaver in the forest, like it usually do- but this time, Hermann knew perfectly who he was. Or who he wasn’t, at least. He walked past the corpse, unable to stop the intrusive thoughts from telling him _what if it’s your brother, what if it’s him_. But he ended up looking back, unable to resist the impulse. (At least the love of his life wasn’t dragged back into Hell, like Orpheus). And Eugen was there, but it wasn’t Eugen ; it was Richter. The blackmailing teacher. Hermann got terrified and started running in the forest, but, after what felt like forever, ran into Eugen-Richter again- sitting on a tree, reading morbid stories in the newspaper. “Have you seen it ?” (and just like that, he had Steiner’s acid-wound on his entire chest) “A boat to England sank last night. All the freaks on board died. Incredible, isn’t it ?”

“Eugen, I would give my right hand for you to be alive,” Hermann said, and he meant every word.

“Well, too bad” answered Eugen. Or something along those lines. “You don’t even know me. I could want you dead. Maybe it’s me who sold you to Richter, you know.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Because I’m dead ?”

“No, because you’re my brother.”

_(He heard the dialogue replaying in his head as he lay awake that night, and he couldn’t know what he actually remembered, and what he was making up as he went ; it didn’t matter ; it all felt as real and crystal clear as if he had witnessed it, read that script a thousand times.)_

“I could be your brother and an asshole. Look at our parents.”

“I don’t care. I have to believe you’d have liked me.”

“Well, I guess I would. Look at you. You’ve done so much things. You’ve really gone a great way.”

“You say that because I’m a doctor ?”

“No, because you’re my brother.”

And no matter the hours he spent in this bed, looking at the moonlight by the window, Jonathan’s warm presence by him in the bed, he couldn’t for the life of him remember what happened next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand there it's done ! The epilogue is really short and will be posted soon. Tell me what you thought of it ! And anyway, I'm really happy to have finished that story, and I hope you had as good a time reading it as I had writing it, for almost nine months :)


	12. Epilogue

The ticket is written in bold black letters, on some kind of thick paper material he keeps toying with (the corners are all creased). “Hamburg to Harwich [Pacific Company], departure : 10:30, 28th of October, 1935 –  arrival : 14:00, 31st of October, 1935”, it says.

It’s like he’s been there before, like the last ten years were a blur, ever since he arrived to Heidelberg. Ghost city. Ghost country. Ghost man. It’s exactly like in his dream ; the one where he met Jonathan on the docks. He holds the ticket in his hand, doesn’t know what to do with himself. Every minute, every hour he spends on this ground burns through the plant of his feet. He can’t stay. But right now, that’s not what matters. What matters is that he doesn’t now if he can leave, either.

He hasn’t ever crossed the border. Germany is more than his home – Germany is _him_. Jonathan couldn’t ever understand that, he the stateless, the _apatride_ , he who’s been crossing the ocean back and forth for years, who never considered the house of his youth home. Well, Hermann never either, but- he doesn’t hate his parents. As much as he would like to, he never managed to. And contrary to Jonathan, he also found something like home, in Heidelberg. A city that belongs to him, a city to which he belongs.

Could he grow roots somewhere else ? Is there any city in the world in which he would feel half as much like home as here, any city where he could find his balance, and not find the ground crumbling under him ?

It’s twenty past ten. Ten minutes until departure. The man who checks the tickets on the platform keeps looking at him, obviously displeased, trying to get him to climb on board.

Something in his stomach is twisting and beating the inside of his skin.

Jonathan. Jonathan Brewster. If he doesn’t get on board, the man’s gonna leave without him. Just like six years ago. _No_. _No,_ his entire being tells him. But he doesn’t want to follow Jonathan just because he’s terrified of what will happen if he doesn’t. He wants excitement to push his steps, not fear.

Something starts creeping on his skin- a thought, a realization- of Germany, as old dusty sheets ; getting to bed every night, recently, has begun feeling more and more like living in a photograph. That is not a positive feeling.

Grow. Like a tree, like vine, like any animal, like everything that lives. Everything that loves.

He thinks of England, of the few photographs he’s seen. He’s heard the medical industry was booming there.

It’s a very simple vision, picture-like : he and Jonathan, walking down a boulevard in the center and London ; two silhouettes in a busy, loud crowd. Smiling. Then what ? Then Spain, Portugal, France, maybe ; Africa, America. China. India. Why not ?

They say that in Hamburg, when the weather is clear, you can see up to 50 miles in the horizon.

Wide, way ahead.

Feet firm, voice deep, degree in bag, and hands steady, he steps on the footbridge.

**Author's Note:**

> All chapter titles are from the wonderful poetry book "What the Night Demands" by Miles Walser. Please check it out, it's really worth the while !
> 
> This is going to be like 80.000 words long or something. I'll try to edit as often as I can ! Don't hesitate to correct my mistakes, though, English is not my first language.
> 
> I'd be glad to hear your theories about what will happen next ^^


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